Small Town Charmer
by lastknownwriter
Summary: A Dean/Castiel Holiday AU. By ten a.m. Dean had seen his dream of expanding the hardware store dashed. By one, his baby had been impounded off the street. And by midnight, Dean's personal space had been invaded by an angry, wet bookseller with hot blue eyes and an armful of natty first editions. There was also a cat. Maybe we should start at the beginning…
1. Chapter 1

_**Note**__: I've been wanting to write a holiday fic with the Winchesters for a while now. This is my favorite time of year and as 2013 draws (impossibly!) to a close, I'd like to say thank you to my wonderful readers and followers and commenters. This has been a strange and wonderful year for me as a writer, and I can't remember anymore what my life was like without all of you in it. Thank you all for reading! ~ Annie__  
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_..._

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester. The property was cleared of all liens just before close of business yesterday and the keys now reside in the hands of the new owner." The loan officer's expression was haughty as he sneered down his nose at the handsome patron seated across from his desk.

Dean stared.

Five years.

It had been five long years of waiting for this moment, a tiny window of time contingent on an old county tax loophole that allowed a resident to purchase an abandoned property by paying the outstanding tax bill. Five years of saving every spare penny in order to have the cash in hand. Five years of dreaming and sketching and fantasizing about expanding the hardware store.

All for nothing.

He wouldn't be expanding. Not this year, or any year.

It was over.

"Mr. Winchester?" Angus Crowley asked, grin tight and mocking.

Dean cleared his throat. "Who was it?" _And where the hell have they been the past five years_?

Crowley shuffled the neat stack of paperwork on the top of the polished mahogany. "Obviously I can't share that piece of information with you for reasons of confidentiality."

"Oh stuff it, Crowley," Dean scoffed. "You and I both know that would have been the prime piece of gossip this morning at Benny's. Half the damn town probably already knows." Dean had been too excited to get to the bank, waiting at the door like an overeager jackass, folded wad of cash nestled deep within in his jacket pocket, grinning from ear to ear as Melanie Robinson had unlocked the tempered glass. He had skipped his customary cup of coffee and slice of morning news at the diner; obviously that had been an error in judgment.

"Fine," Crowley smirked. "Fellow by the name of Novak. I believe it was his family that owned the building originally." His grin widened. "Winchester Hardware included."

"Winchester Hardware is mine," Dean ground out. He stood, turning away from the smug bastard before he said or did something he would regret. Dean owned the hardware store and the apartment overhead outright, but Crowley held the purse strings of the town. It wouldn't do to make an enemy of the man.

At least no more so than usual.

"For how long, Dean? Hope you didn't put all your eggs in a single basket."

Crowley's words rang in Dean's ears as he stalked across the lobby. He avoided the teller window, reluctant to catch even an inkling of sympathy from Melanie or the other morning staff.

The familiar smells of iron and steel and mulch and paint soothed his nerves when he unlocked the door and stepped inside the darkened store. Winchester Hardware had been his grandfather's pride and joy for more than forty-five years when Dean had taken over at the tender age of twenty four. His father John had nearly let it go to auction rather than assume responsibility for the Concordia, Kansas landmark after Henry Winchester died suddenly from a heart attack. The two-story brick storefront on 6th Street had been a town fixture since 1956.

Dean had officially worked in the hardware store from the age of fourteen, but for years before that he had spent untold hours in the shop at his grandfather's side. On Saturday mornings, while his friends were still in their PJ's watching cartoons, he would jump on his bike and traverse the four blocks downtown. No matter how early he got up, or how quickly he ate his Cheerios, Dean never once beat Henry to the store. He would arrive to find the back door unlocked, waiting for a small hand to push it open, bell tinkling overhead.

His grandpa would appear from behind a well-stocked aisle, dressed in a starched shirt and colorful bow tie, white apron tied neatly around his hips. Henry always greeted him with the same jolly expression. "Well, what a nice surprise. What are you doing out of bed so early on this fine Saturday morning?"

Dean would grin and grab his apron from the hook by the door. "I'm here to help, grandpa," he would say, and Henry would take the apron and deftly fold it pint size, spinning Dean round and round until the ties fit snug around his small waist. Then Henry would be off, whistling around the store with energy and cheer and Dean would go to the little cupboard under the sink and retrieve his supplies. First he would attack the oak framed display cases, polishing the smooth old wood with Murphy's Oil Soap and a soft white cloth, before moving to clean the windows with vinegar water and yesterday's newspaper, carefully setting aside the page of comics to read at lunch.

Mid-morning, he would be ready for a snack and Henry would have creamy peanut butter on Ritz crackers and a glass a milk waiting for him on top of the Formica table in the kitchenette at the back of the store. Dean would perch on a red leather and chrome stool and catch twenty minutes of the Pink Panther or Jonny Quest on the bulbous atomic-era RCA Victor, savoring every buttery crumb, before the tinkling of the bell or his grandfather's jovial tone would draw him back into the store for his next chore.

The townsfolk loved Henry, and he them. He knew their families and their joys and their tribulations, and the hardware store on Saturday was as much about community as it was about paint or gardening supplies. The sound of his grandfather's hearty laughter would echo over the sturdy metal shelving and pool in Dean's stomach, familiar and warm, and in those moments the store became _home_ to Dean, as much as the little house he shared with his parents and Sammy on Washington street.

The patrons at the store would greet Dean by name when they spotted him, patting his head (he hated that part) and telling him what a good assistant he was for his grandpa, and wondering aloud how his grandpa ever managed without him during the school day? This was something young Dean often lamented himself, to the point Mary Winchester had to intervene (unbeknownst to Dean until years later).

One crisp fall afternoon when Dean was in the fifth grade, his grandpa sat across from him in a booth at the diner down the block. It was a rare treat to have lunch outside the store on a busy Saturday, but Henry had flipped the _Open_ sign to _Gone to Lunch_, locked the front door, and the pair had taken their seats amid the rest of the midday crowd. Dean had ordered a hamburger, the thick ground beef juicy and dripping on jadeite dinnerware, home cut fries golden brown and steaming hot. Henry was having meatloaf and mashed potatoes, the lunch special, and Dean curled his nose when his grandpa popped a kernel of fried okra into his mouth with a wink.

"You know, Dean, I've been thinking."

Dean paused with a ketchup-laden fry halfway to his mouth. He swallowed, a strange sense of foreboding falling over him at his grandpa's serious expression. He lowered the fry to his plate. "Yeah?"

"You're a big help to me at the store."

Dean nodded, stomach clenching with anxiety as his mind raced to remember what exactly he had done this morning. Had he forgotten something important in his haste to stock the nails and nuts and bolts? Those little wood and glass drawers were Dean's favorite part of the store, each with its own metal scoop tied to the handle with twine, a neat stack of brown paper lunch bags on a nearby ledge, ready for filling and weighing on the old red scale. Dean liked to save replenishing the bits and bobs for very last on Saturday, savoring the anticipation, but today he had finished them early on a whim. Now he felt sick; the special lunch at the diner taking on an ominous undertone.

"I didn't go to college, Dean," Henry said, surprising him with the unexpected shift in topic. "In my day, it wasn't necessary, at least not to run a little shop."

"It's not just a little shop!" Dean protested hotly, his cheeks burning, mind whirling. He didn't know what he would do if his grandpa asked him to stop coming on Saturdays. He tried to imagine life without the lemon oil and vinegar and peanut butter and crackers.

Henry reached across the table and patted Dean's clenched fist. "You're the best worker I've ever had, Dean," he said seriously. "And some day I'd be proud if you took over the store."

Dean stared at his grandpa. The older man's kind brown eyes shone in the light from the window. "Where are you going?" he asked fearfully.

Henry laughed and the happy sound eased some of the tension in Dean's stomach. "Nowhere, Dean. Nowhere at all. But," he patted his hand again before picking up his fork. "You need to do well in school before you can help me full time, of course. Running a business is more than facing stock and counting back change. Why, you don't know how handy it would be to have a decent accountant to do the books."

Dean's pained grimace made Henry laugh again. "Well, if not accounting, then maybe you'd like to study something else. Art?" He forked up a hearty scoop of mashed potatoes.

"I," Dean paused and dipped a new fry in the pool of ketchup on his plate. "I like to read," he said swiftly and popped the fry into his mouth.

"Literature," Henry nodded solemnly.

Dean waited for him to scoff or frown or point out that reading books was hardly a worthy pastime, not nearly as good as baseball or tinkering in the garage the way his father sometimes did. When Henry simply continued to cut his meatloaf into neat squares, Dean relaxed. "Have you ever read Robinson Crusoe?" he ventured cautiously.

"Oh my, yes." Henry's head popped up, eyes sparkling. "In fact, that was one of your father's favorites when he was your age."

Dean's eyes were wide "It was?"

Henry tapped Dean's untouched burger with his fork. "It was. Better eat up, son. We shouldn't leave our store empty for too long."

Dean grinned and began to eat in earnest. _Our store. _

As they chatted about Crusoe and Jack London and, incongruously, Peter Pan, Dean wondered if he could ever learn to tie a bow tie.

…

The bell at the front of the store clanged and Dean sighed. He should probably go flip the window sign to _Open_ if he was going to leave the door unlocked.

"Dean?"

"Back here!" he called.

Jo appeared at his side a moment later. "I heard the news," she said, wrapping an arm around his waist, bumping her hip against his thigh. "You want to go out to Bobby's later and crush some cars? I'll bring the beer."

Dean chuckled and finished pouring nails into the wooden drawer. It was still his favorite job. And Jo Harvelle, damn her, knew all the other ways to his heart. Although she had spent the majority of their youth in love with his baby brother, temperamentally she was more like Dean. "Thanks Joanna Beth, but I think I'll stay in tonight. Watch TV. I need to catch up on some paperwork anyway."

"Wow." Jo's brown eyes were solemn.

"Oh shut up," Dean muttered, but his mood had lightened enough he felt ready to face the day. "C'est la vie, you know?" He shrugged and smiled down at her sadly.

"Dean Winchester, did you just speak _French_?" Jo screwed her mouth into a moue and made kissy noises.

Dean ducked out of reach just in time, laughing as the bell pealed again. He was still smiling when he stepped into the aisle to greet his first customer of the day.

"Oh good, you're not moping," Mary said, her face rosy from the brisk October wind. She kissed Dean on the cheek and pressed a paper bag into his hands. "Go get a plate and eat your breakfast before you get too busy."

"Mom," Dean protested, heart warmed, eyes stinging.

"Oh, did you eat?" she asked innocently, waving at Jo, now perched atop the oak and glass checkout counter.

"You know I didn't," Dean said dryly. No one knew him as well as his mother. Not even Jo.

Mary smiled in satisfaction and gave him a quick hug. "Then eat. I've got to run. Try not to worry, baby. Everything happens for a reason."

"Yeah, okay." Dean nodded, wishing not for the first time in his adult life that he could wrap himself in her flour splotched apron and let her soothe away the injustices of the day.

"Dinner's at seven," she called from the door.

"So, fried chicken at casa Winchester, then the Roadhouse?" Jo hopped off the counter.

"Aren't you on babysitting duty today?" Dean peeked inside the paper bag. The fresh-cooked scent of bacon and biscuits and gravy made his mouth water.

"Only til Sam gets off at five, then he's on his own."

Dean glanced up. "So mom will watch Henry and Sam will drag his mopey ass to the Roadhouse with us."

Jo shrugged. "Basically." She picked at a hangnail. "How long til he's over Ruby, you think?"

"Jo," Dean warned.

"Yeah," she sighed wearily. "Nevermind." She startled him when she grabbed his face and planted a swift kiss to his lips. "Don't let the assholes get you down, Deano."

Dean grimaced and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. "Gross, Jo. That's like kissing my sister."

"You've done worse," she singsonged as she sauntered toward the front of the store.

"Go take care of my nephew!" Dean called, but she was already gone, her bright blonde head disappearing down the sidewalk. A movement in the window caught his eye and he shifted to the left for a better view.

A man, bundled against the chill in a dark wool coat and deep blue scarf, appeared to be leaning a bicycle against the ashlar quoins edging the corner of the building. Dean set his breakfast aside and ventured forward. The gypsum castings bordering the windows were delicate, original to the building and dating to 1916. He had gone to a lot of trouble this summer applying a fresh coat of sealant and paint over each intricately carved floral emblem, and he would appreciate it if this unknown bicycle riding bastard didn't carelessly chip away all his hard work.

"Hey!" Dean ducked through the door, his voice carrying gruffly, sharper than he had intended. He froze when he realized the man held a ring of keys, one of which was turning the lock on the door of the vacant store next door.

The store that for the past five years, in all of Dean's hopes and dreams, was the future home of Winchester Paint and Interiors, a subsidiary of Winchester Hardware.

The man regarded Dean coolly, one slim eyebrow raised above his dark-rimmed glasses. "Can I help you?"

Dean frowned and nodded toward the bike. "You need to move that. This building's a historical landmark and that masonry it's shoved against would be damn near impossible to replace."

The man glanced at the bike and then back at Dean. "I apologize. I didn't realize."

Neither man moved.

Dean felt the irritation of the morning return in a flash of heavy anger and disappointment. _What?_ Did he expect Dean to move it for him?He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and glared pointedly.

The man sighed and stepped away from the door to retrieve the bike.

As he rolled it past him, Dean noticed two things: one, the eyes behind the Clark Kent glasses were the exact same shade as the scarf; and two, the man's face was damn near perfect.

Dean swallowed.

And reminded himself to breathe when his chest grew too tight..

Unaware of Dean's predicament, Mr. Perfect rested the bicycle against his newly acquired windows.

Dean ground his teeth together in renewed frustration. Having assumed he would own both buildings by winter, he had stupidly repaired and sealed the delicate façade of this storefront too. He supposed it was really none of his business if the jackass unknowingly ruined his newly purchased piece of century-old architecture. He opened his mouth to tell him anyway, the perfect witty retort forming on his tongue with appalling—and unusual—speed, but the man neatly stepped through the unlocked door and closed it without a backward glance_._

"Welcome to the neighborhood," Dean muttered, flushing at the dismissal.

A gust of sharply cold wind blew recently fallen leaves in a whirling tornado down the street, drawing his eye to the colorful piles heaped overnight where the cobblestones met the buildings. His grandpa would have handed him a broom an hour ago with a no-nonsense look and a hearty pat on his backside. "I hear you, Gramps," Dean said under his breath, melancholy again. "Let's get this place ship-shape."


	2. Chapter 2

"Cas?"

Castiel Novak grimaced and rolled his neck, shoulders stiff from bending and scrubbing and carrying and moving. "Yeah, back here!"

His brother Gabriel appeared a few moments later, and God bless him, he held a large steaming cup of what Cas hoped was coffee, and a white paper bag emblazoned with the _Sweet Dreams _logo_. _Gabe owned the bakery down the block, and was the primary catalyst for Cas' new business venture. "I brought breakfast," Gabe winked. He shook his head with a wide grin when Cas greedily reached for the mug. "Uh uh, not until you wash up. You're filthy."

Cas huffed. "Jackass," he muttered under his breath, but he pushed to his feet and disappeared through the bookshelves, moving slower than normal, stretching his sore muscles as he went. When he returned, he found Gabe staring thoughtfully at the wall behind the register. "What are you staring at?" he asked, popping the top off of the coffee and inhaling deeply. _Mmmmm._

"You met your neighbor yet?" Gabe's foot was tapping to a silent tune.

"Yes."

Gabe swung around, surprised. "Yes?" When Cas didn't answer and continued to calmly sip his coffee, he rolled his eyes. "And? What'd you think?"

Cas frowned. "What do you mean what did I think? In the forty-five seconds our paths crossed, I thought he was abrupt and overbearing."

Gabe slapped a hand across his eyes. "Do you fuck _everything _up? Jesus Christ, Cas."

Cas stiffened, expression indignant. "I do _not._ I'm here aren't I?"

"Dean Winchester," Gabe said through his teeth. "Dean fucking hot ass Winchester is right next door." When Cas didn't so much as blink, he groaned. "_Cas._ Please tell me the happy part of your anatomy at least _twitched _when you saw his pretty face_._"

Cas ignored him and opened the white sack.

"Castiel Novak."

Cas took a bite out of the first donut, sweet cream squirting onto his tongue. When Gabe took a step toward him with a menacing glare he pulled the wax paper wrapped pastry out of reach. "I noticed, all right?" he mumbled around yeasty dough and sugar.

"Damn straight, you noticed." Gabe heaved a sigh of relief.

"And I'm not interested."

Gabe groaned. "Oh for the love of _Pete—"_

"Who's Pete again?" Cas ducked when Gabe swung, chuckling at his brother's enthusiastic use of some very choice profanity.

"I hate you." Gabe snatched up the white sack.

"Hey!" Cas' words were garbled; he had shoved the remaining donut in his mouth so he had both hands free to protect himself, just in case.

"No," Gabe said forcefully, jabbing a finger in Cas' direction. "I am sick and tired of you moping around, pining after someone who could give _two shits_ about you—"

"Careful," Cas warned with a low growl.

"I'm not done," Gabe said between his teeth. He shoved the sack at Cas' chest, likely squashing the remaining pastries beyond repair. "And there's a sweet, handsome,_ available_ guy housed not twenty feet away." His expression softened when Cas' eyes fell on the blank wall that separated the stores. "All I'm saying is, half this town has tried to maneuver their way into Dean Winchester's pants, yours truly included."

Cas snorted and grinned at his brother. "But? I hear a but there."

"But," Gabe shrugged. "He's not biting. Not that I'm aware of." His eyes twinkled as he started to back toward the door. "I thought maybe his world needed some shaking up in the form of my very hot and very lonely baby brother."

Cas' mouth worked. _Dammit. _"Are you telling me you gave me the money for the back taxes on Granddad's store because you're trying to help some random stranger get laid?"

The front door closed with a bang.

"Idiot," Cas exhaled. "I am such an _idiot._" He looked around the messy, empty storefront. What he had thought was his brother finally showing some maturity for a change, giving Cas a much-needed chance to leave behind a painful previous life, was in actuality nothing more than a live action soap opera for Gabriel's own personal entertainment. "Like hell," he said angrily to the empty room and tossed the crumpled bakery bag to the floor.

…

The summer Castiel turned ten, his parents divorced. It wasn't a protracted, angry battlefield leading up to the announcement; it was more a quietly depressing pall that increasingly tainted their family until one day Cas woke up to find his mother sitting in the backyard, crying, alone.

His father was married to his twenty-two year old secretary by Halloween.

His mother never recovered. She would take her own life on a cold and snowy Christmas Eve, the big, empty house finally proving too much for her to bear.

The following summer, the summer Cas turned eleven, he was sent to live with his grandfather in Kansas. His father had said it was because Granddad needed help in the store, but Cas knew it was because his new stepmother wanted to go on an extended tour of Europe. No kids allowed. Gabe and the oldest Novak brother, Michael, were sent to camp and Cas was packed off to Concordia.

Granddad Novak owned The Bindery on 6th Street, part used bookstore, part repair shop. The back of the store was a virtual museum of book binding materials. There was an assortment of vintage clothes and leathers, dusty boxes of parchment and gold leaf and foils, adhesives of every weight and purpose. It was compellingly fascinating to the lonely youngster perched on the verge of adolescence, enticing and new, an escape. His Granddad never scolded him for exploring the strange supplies, nor hampered Cas' natural curiosity. He absorbed the quiet boy into his secret world behind the bookshelves, teaching him the time-honored tradition of binding a book by hand.

After a few weeks, Cas could fully bind a book by himself, gilding the pages and embossing the cover, hand-tipping the illustrations with as careful precision as a seasoned pro. His first completed work was a ratty first edition of Robinson Crusoe that he and his grandfather had picked up at a barn auction, nestled in the bottom of a box full of junk. The cover was in ruins, and the binder boards and end papers were disintegrating, but the pages of the book itself were intact.

Castiel worked feverishly on the project, consumed, until one morning he emerged from the apartment over the store to find his Granddad standing at the foot of the stairs, his tall slim form and dark solemn face frighteningly bleak in the soft blue light of dawn.

"What's wrong." Cas' voice was flat. In that instant he saw his mother's lifeless face, her beautiful blue eyes half-lidded, the smeared red of her lipstick matching the party dress she wore, echoed in the pool of blood on the tile beside the tub where she lay.

His grandfather smiled gently, surprising him. "Nothing is wrong, Castiel."

Cas descended the steps slowly, unconvinced. "You're sending me away."

Granddad Novak blinked. "Why ever would you think such a thing? Of course I'm not sending you away." Cas was within reach of his long, thin arms, and he reached up to squeeze the boy's shoulder. "You may stay as long as you like, Castiel."

Cas knew this was a lie; neither he nor his grandfather was in charge of his fate, but he appreciated the fairytale in that moment. He wasn't ready to leave the little shop, with its pungent aroma of glue and leather and old paper, the air always overlaid with a hint of the cinnamon Granddad snuck into his cocoa, his grandfather convinced cinnamon was a miracle cure for all manner of childhood ailments. "I think I can finish my book today," Cas said cautiously. His grandfather still blocked his entry into the store.

"Not today, Castiel," the older man said kindly. "I have realized, quite belatedly in fact, that you have been here nearly four weeks and have yet to venture outside, make friends." When Cas continued to stare at him, he faltered. "Enjoy your summer?" he offered, the words fading quietly away.

"I like it here," Cas said, hating the stubborn bite to his words. _Why couldn't he stay here, inside? _

"And I like having you," Granddad said, nodding his head. "But for today, I want you to go exploring. Concordia is a smart little town, and I'm sure the local children would love to have you join them."

Cas cocked his head dubiously, but he didn't argue. There was no point. His grandfather had clearly been away from his own childhood for far too many years, if he actually thought it would be that simple. "All right, Granddad."

Just before he shuffled miserably out the front door of the shop, the gentle tinkling of the overhead bell stabbing him in the heart with its happy sound, his granddad called to him. "I'll have lunch ready at twelve!"

The bright morning light hurt Cas' eyes and he blinked rapidly. He absolutely did _not_ have tears burning at the back of his throat. It was the light.

"Where'd you come from?"

Cas spun around to find a boy, approximately his age, leaning on a broomstick, the long handle tucked under his arm. "From inside the bookstore."

"The bookstore?" the boy asked, scowling at The Bindery's door, as if he were personally affronted that the shop had been keeping secrets. His large green eyes ran over Cas' face, then down to his feet and back again. "What's your name?"

Cas, caught off guard by the boy's brazenly open gaze, had a sudden intense desire to shrink into the cobblestones and disappear. His name had been the bane of his existence for as long as he could remember. Too feminine to be a traditional boy's name, even his oft-used nickname was more suited for a girl. "James," he blurted, defaulting to his middle name in a brilliant flash of inspiration. He exhaled slowly, trying to calm his pounding heart. "Jimmy," he added, warming to the charade.

The boy thrust his hand forward. "Dean Winchester."

Cas looked at the small, slightly grubby fingers for a beat before clasping them tight, holding on for dear life when Dean gave them a hard shake. He opened his mouth to ask if Dean wanted to go exploring when the other boy tossed the broom against the building.

"Want to ride down to the lake? I'm bored."

Cas nodded enthusiastically, then frowned. "Ride?"

"Bikes," Dean said, already turning to yank open the hardware store door, throwing his voice to the back of the shop. "Gramps! I'm going down to the lake with my friend Jimmy!"

Cas grinned. Maybe his granddad was right; maybe it really _was_ that simple.

…

Cas had the bookshelves cleaned and aligned, the floors neatly swept, by eleven. He stared at the wall he shared with the hardware store, a framed photo of his grandfather in his hands. Granddad Novak had been young when the snapshot was taken, in his late twenties maybe. He was standing in front of The Bindery, tall and solemn, minus the wrinkles Cas remembered lining his forehead but still holding all the wisdom of the world in his face.

"Damn," he said softly, chest tight. He hadn't thought about the old man in a long time, hadn't _let_ himself think about that summer he had spent in Concordia in years.

He wondered how long it would take Dean Winchester to put two and two together.

He hadn't been lying when he'd told Gabe he had noticed the hardware store owner's handsome face; of course he had noticed. Dean had been a cute kid. Sandy hair a shade too long and flopping over his forehead, sticky with sweat after a long game of catch, or combed into a silly Mohawk after flinging himself off the rope swing down at Beaver's Lake. His bright green eyes would sparkle with jolly laughter when his endless ribbing would finally crack Cas' cool façade.

The suntanned skin had weathered and darkened over the years, shoulders broadened and childish jaw squared, but the eyes were the same.

Yeah. Cas had noticed.

He sighed and tucked the framed photograph under the counter. Might as well face the music, he thought. Besides. He really did need a hammer and nails.

…

Dean stiffened when he glanced up from the tiny rectangular nook where he kept his paint mixer to find his new neighbor had silently materialized beside him. "Fuck," he gasped, heart pounding. "Where'd you come from?"

The man's eyes flickered, a flash of _something, _before it was gone. He hesitated before he answered. "From the bookstore."

Dean's eyes widened. "You're turning it into a bookstore?" He dusted his hands off on his jeans, trying in vain not to notice the pretty shadows that fell across the man's cheekbones from his criminally long eyelashes. _Why is he standing so close? _ He wondered if the man would notice if he took a step backward. Or three.

The man was so still, Dean thought for a moment he wasn't breathing, but then his lips parted and the tip of a soft pink tongue appeared to wet his lower lip.

Dean stared, helpless. His ears started to ring. And something—

"It used to be a bookstore," the man interrupted his thoughts, searching Dean's face, seeming to expect some sort of acknowledgement of this statement.

"Ah, yeah." Dean cleared his throat, mentally shaking off the fog that had suddenly enveloped him. "Yeah. Mr. Novak was friends with my Gramps. Nice old guy. But his store was," he faltered when the man frowned.

"Was what?" the man asked stiffly.

Dean held up his hands. "Nevermind. Forget I said anything. Why don't we start over?" He gingerly offered his palm into the scant eighteen inches that separated them. "Dean Winchester."

The stranger stared at him until Dean felt his neck burn, cheeks flushing warmly. Just before he dropped his arm in mortification, the man grabbed his hand and shook it perfunctorily.

"Castiel Novak." When he released Dean's fingers, he wiped his hand on his jeans.

Dean pursed his lips. _Okay._

The silence stretched uncomfortably long and Dean wondered how long this strange conversation was going to last. He was starting to sweat.

"I need to purchase a hammer, and some nails."

The man's abrupt declaration startled Dean and he cursed inwardly when he flinched. "What for?"

Castiel cocked his head. "Because one is useless without the other?"

Dean rolled his eyes, stepping neatly around the man, desperately needing air that wasn't tinged with his rich, warm scent. _Damned enclosed nook, anyway. _"No, I mean what are you hammering and nailing?" He offered what he hoped was a friendly grin when the man's scowl deepened. _And why wasn't that less attractive? Fuck his life. _ "The job determines the tool."

"I," Castiel swallowed tightly and his hands fidgeted with the hem of his worn button-down as he followed Dean up the aisle. His eyes strayed to the neat lines of paint and primer, avoiding Dean's denim clad backside. Mostly. "I need to hang some photographs on the wall behind the register."

"Oh no," Dean stopped and shook his head, mouth set in a grim line when he turned.

Cas stiffened. "What do you mean, _'oh no',_" he growled.

Dean blinked. _Did he just growl?_ He realized with a frustrating certainty that the universe had decided yet again to fuck with him, as his level of annoyance matched his level of arousal notch for notch. _Shit. _He straightened his shoulders. "Because over my dead body will I let you go pounding holes in that century-old wall behind the register."

"You won't _let_ me?" Castiel air quoted, although Dean would have understood the emphasis by the hot spark in his eyes alone. "I _own_ that building, Dean Winchester."

"And you share that wall with _me, _Castiel Novak_._" He pointed over Cas' shoulder to the offending structure. "No. Holes."

"Fine," Castiel said between his teeth, spinning around and stalking to the front of the store. He yanked open the door but turned back at the last second. "By the way," he bit out. "Any idea who owns this ugly monstrosity of a car parked in front of my shop?"

Dean's mouth fell open in shock.

"Because if it continues to block my customer parking, I'll have no choice but to have it removed."

…

"Fix me a special, Janie," Dean smiled up at the waitress. Benny's hot ham and cheese sandwich on Texas toast and home cut fries. The perfect anecdote to a shitty day.

"Deano, how's it hangin'?" a cheery voice asked, sliding onto the stool beside him.

"Gabe," Dean acknowledged with a smile and a nod. "You know. Same old, same old."

"Yeah, I heard about the shop. Sorry, man," Gabe said. He smacked Dean hard on the back. "My brother has always had a mind of his own."

"Your brother?" Dean blinked. _Novak. Of course. _"Gee, Gabe, you think you could've warned me before I made a total ass of myself this morning at the bank?" he asked irritably. He swallowed a huge gulp of too-sweet tea and grimaced. He had asked for unsweetened.

Gabe shrugged . "I wasn't sure he'd go through with it. I mean, seriously. Who actually reads books anymore? Much less needs them repaired."

Dean stared. "So, he _is_ reopening Mr. Novak's book repair shop," he said slowly.

"So it would seem." Gabe gave his order to Janie. "He's going to live above the store too, in Granddad's old apartment." He shivered. "Gives me the willies. Granddad always reminded me of Dracula."

"When I was seven, I thought he was Abe Lincoln," Dean grinned. Janie set an overflowing plate down in front of him with a wink and he bit into a too-hot fry, huffing around the crispy deliciousness. He carefully avoided thinking about the fact that one very handsome blue-eyed bookseller was going to be his neighbor. Twenty-four hours a day.

"You still living above the hardware store?" Gabe asked, and the words were delivered with just enough innocence that Dean's spidey sense kicked into overdrive. He opened his mouth to reply—

"Dean." The sharp admonishment carried over the last of the diner's lunch crowd.

Dean sighed. _What now._ He glanced over his shoulder to find his brother Sam swaggering across the polished checkerboard floor, nodding at patrons, the shiny badge pinned to his hip flashing in the overhead fluorescents. "Hey, Sammy." He turned back to his plate.

"Sam," Gabe said with a wink.

Sam's stride faltered at Gabe's warm drawl, but he shook his head, refocusing on his brother. "Dean. Go move the car."

Dean took an oversized bite of his sandwich. "No," he said, around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

"You don't even have to move it that far. Just back up and park in front of the hardware store."

"No, Sam," Dean said forcefully, dragging a paper napkin across his mouth. "I've been parking in front of that empty storefront for more than _five_ years."

"And now it belongs to someone else." Dean winced and Sam sighed. "Look, just for today, move the car. We'll figure it out." He squeezed Dean's shoulder.

Dean shrugged him off. "Bite me, Sam."

"Dean—"

Dean stood and stalked to the bathroom, slamming the door.

The diner was silent and still until Gabe nudged his fork to the floor, the clatter echoing off the tile. As the other customers went back to enjoying their lunch, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Why don't you just move it yourself," Gabe asked, swirling a fry in a huge pool of ketchup. "Cut him some slack."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Because my job is not to coddle my brother. It's to uphold the law."

"Yeah, dangerous place like Concordia? You must be _swamped_," Gabe replied sarcastically.

Sam's jaw tightened and he spun on his heel, waving off Janie's offer of a to-go cup.

When Dean returned a few minutes later, Gabe chuckled. "Did you hide in the bathroom until you were sure he was gone?"

"No!" Dean protested before deflating. "Maybe."

Gabe stood and threw a ten dollar bill on the counter. "For what it's worth? I wouldn't have moved it either." He started to back away from the counter. "Hey, I know you're holding a grudge and all, but if you have any leftovers, you might throw 'em in a doggie bag. That handsome bastard will probably get so lost unpacking his smelly old books he'll forget to stop and eat."

Dean ate every bite out of spite.

And then had Janie pack up a second lunch special to go.

He was halfway down the block before he realized the wrecker parked on _his_ side of the street was hitched to the front end of his baby.

"Oh _fuck no."_

_…_


	3. Chapter 3

"Bobby!" But he was too late, and the wrecker lumbered down the street, the grizzly old mechanic waving jauntily to Dean out of the open window. "Mother_fucker_." Dean rounded on the handsome dark-haired man hovering in the doorway of the former bookstore. He stalked to the stoop, noting with no little pride that the man's eyes were wary, possibly even remorseful. He shoved the Styrofoam container into his hands. "There's your lunch asshole. Now please go straight to hell."

Cas' mouth dropped open in shock as he watched Dean cross the cobblestone sidewalk with long (magnificent) strides and slam through the hardware store door.

A droplet of warm, buttery grease slid through the opening of the container in his hands and ran over his thumb.

Dean had brought him lunch.

_Dean had brought him lunch. _

"Fuck," he sighed, popping the lid on the container and staring morosely at the jumbled contents. The fries were still hot enough to offer up a puff of steam in the cool midday air. "_Fuck fuck fuck._"

Cas wavered in the entryway for a full five minutes before locking up and carrying the Styrofoam box next door. He could hear movement from the back of the store, the clatter of silverware, a curse as something crashed to the floor. The shop was empty of customers. He followed the muffled sounds until he found himself standing in the doorway of the kitchenette in back, a dozen childhood memories flooding his senses at the unchanged room.

"What do you want."

The anger jolted Cas from his nostalgia. He carefully set the takeout container on the worn Formica. "I wanted to… thank you for lunch."

Dean slammed a drawer shut with his hip. The fork he held poised in his fist was steady over his plate. "Yeah, well, you're welcome." He viciously stabbed into a slice of pie.

Cas hid his grin. _Dean._ Dean had loved three things when they were young: his Gramps, the hardware store, and pie. He frowned as the other man studiously avoided his eyes and cut another bite, heavy-laden with meringue.

Make that four things: John Winchester's big, black, classic Chevy Impala.

"Dean—"

"Shut up." Dean shifted his hips and relaxed against the counter, feet crossing at the ankles.

"Excuse me?" Cas took a breath, anger spiking in a rise of steamy frustration. He placed a hand on the table in a bid for balance, the constant fluctuation of emotion wearing thin.

"Shut. Up." Dean punctuated each word with a scrape of the utensil against the plate. "I want to enjoy my pie in peace. You," he gestured at the table. "Sit and eat. But don't talk to me. Not yet."

Cas clenched his jaw. _Fine._ He sat and flipped open the lid of his Styrofoam container. "Are you going to—"

"Shh." Dean continued to chew, stubbornly staring at his plate.

Cas picked up one half of his sandwich and took a big bite. A dribble of grease ran down his chin and he caught it with a fingertip.

Dean sighed heavily and wrenched a paper towel from a roll on the counter, thrusting it over the top of the table.

Cas started to say thank you but changed his mind when Dean went back to viciously cutting neat bites of pastry and custard filling.

They ate in silence. Gradually, Cas relaxed, almost to the point of enjoying the homey feel of the kitchenette, wishing like crazy he could watch Dean's face as he enjoyed his pie, but too reticent to sneak more than a few brief peeks. Instead, he was forced to imagine the way green eyes warmed at each flake of coconut, the way dimples winked out when the tines of the fork slid into a full mouth, each bite savored for its simple pleasure.

Memory was a funny thing; Cas hadn't spent more than two minutes with Dean in more than twenty years, yet somehow he could _remember_ very vividly the freckles that formed Orion over the bridge of his nose, and the grassy hue of his eyes in the noonday sun.

Dean finished and turned to rinse his plate and fork.

Cas gingerly wiped his mouth, steeling himself to say _thank you_ again and excuse himself from the too-warm kitchen, when a slice of pie was slid into place in front of him and the Styrofoam box dragged away. He watched Dean turn and drop the white container into the trash and then wash his hands at the sink, drying them on a cheery rick-rack trimmed towel. He tried not to stare at the worn denim contours of his very appealing backside. "Dean," he said quietly. When Dean turned, his face was still edged in hardness, still angry, but at least he was meeting Cas' eyes again.

"What."

Cas grimaced at the harsh tone and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry about the car. I should have waited for you to move it."

"You think?" Dean asked sarcastically. He tossed the towel on the countertop. "_I'm _going to get my car. _You,_" he said with a pointed jab in Cas' direction. "Watch my store while I'm gone."

Cas blinked. He was on his feet and following him in seconds, but Dean was already on his phone, calling someone named _Joe,_ and asking for a ride. _Who the hell was Joe?_

"What if I decide to rob you blind?" he called as Dean pushed open the front door.

"It's not like I don't know where to find you," Dean retorted before he disappeared into the sunshine.

"I guess that's true enough," Cas mused with a surprised chuckle. He stood in the middle of Winchester Hardware and wondered if he was ready for whatever the hell he was about to get himself into.

…

Motor oil permeated the air of body shop, comforting in its familiarity, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the gleaming black paint of his baby, parked out back.

"Dad?" he called into the dark recesses of the garage.

"Dean?" John Winchester appeared from behind the hood of a pickup truck, wiping his hands on an faded red rag. "Come for your car, did ya?"

Dean rolled his eyes at his dad's grin. "Not a word."

John laughed softly and reached behind him to pull two beers from the ice chest beside the front tire. He tossed one to Dean. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not especially." Dean popped the tab on his can and took a long drink. He wrinkled his nose after he swallowed. "How can you drink this crap?"

"This is real man's beer," John scoffed, holding up the silver and blue can. "None of that frou frou stuff in bottles you boys drink."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "You mean it's the cheapskate's blue ribbon special. Best served ice cold and half shit-faced."

John grinned. "That too."

They drank over the hood of the old Ford John was working on, discussing possible causes of the faint whine that refused to be diagnosed.

"Bout time you showed up," Bobby grumbled, mopping beads of sweat from his brow. He had heard Dean come in and decided it was probably best to stick to the office until the gnashing of teeth was over.

"What the hell, Bobby?"

"Dean," John warned.

"I have a contract with the sheriff, boy. I come when he calls." Bobby's grin was full and wide and it pissed Dean off.

"Bull shit," he complained. "You and Sam have probably been dying for the chance to fuck with me. You sure as hell got there fast enough. How long have you two been cooking this up?"

"Shockingly, I've got better things to do with my time than plot with your brother," Bobby said drily.

John clamped a hand over Dean's shoulder to ward off the storm he could read brewing in his son's eyes. "Whatever lesson it was, I hope you learned it. It was a bitch getting the old girl off the hitch."

"Did you scratch her?" Dean asked worriedly, shrugging off his dad's hand and hurrying across the oil-stained floor.

"No I didn't _scratch 'er_," Bobby groused, throwing John a look of disgust. "Now look what you've gone and done. Damn fool boy'll be making me jack up the front end to check for damages."

John chuckled and shook his head before he went back to work. He'd leave Bobby to deal with Dean; it was Bobby's fault for getting in the middle of the boys' scuffle anyway.

"I'm not jacking your damn car up."

"Just do it Bobby, so I can see for myself."

"You want 'er jacked up so bad, you know where the lift is." Bobby stubbornly crossed his arms.

Dean narrowed his eyes until Bobby threw his hands up in disgust.

"Fine. _Fine!"_ The old mechanic stomped into the garage and returned a few minutes later with an old orange floor jack. Dean could hear his dad's laughter echoing behind them.

A few minutes later Dean crawled out from under the car. He lowered her gently to the ground and wheeled back the device. He passed the handle to Bobby, lips pursed. "Looks okay," he admitted grudgingly. "But in the extremely unlikely event there's a next time, you by God better wait for me."

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "This about that Novak boy? I woulda thought you'd be plumb tickled to see him again after all this time."

Dean frowned. "What do you mean?" Bobby stared for so long Dean began to squirm. "What?"

"Oh nothing," Bobby said, shaking his head. "Sometimes you got shit for brains, that's all."

Dean blinked. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Dean?" John leaned out the back door and waved a cell phone. "Your mother wants to know if you're bringing a guest for dinner?"

Bobby choked.

Dean looked between the two men, dumbfounded. "No, I'm not bringing any _guests._ Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

John grinned at Bobby's bark of laughter and shook his head, returning to the darkened interior of the garage. "No Mary, Dean Winchester, party of one…"

"Deano," Bobby said, reaching over to squeeze his arm. "I love you. But you got rocks rattling around upstairs. Now get back to your store before your Gramps haunts your ass."

Dean rolled his eyes but slid behind the driver's door. "See you later, old man. And you owe me. Big time."

"Yeah, yeah," Bobby grumbled with a wave.

…

Cas glanced over at the old Coca-cola clock above the door. It was after two and he was starting to get restless. He hadn't grabbed his cell phone when he left and if he was going to get his weekend phone call, it would happen within the next few minutes.

How long was Dean going to be gone, anyway?

The shop had had a steady stream of customers, all small, easy purchases, and thankfully it hadn't taken him long to figure out the old fashioned mechanical cash register. The people of Concordia were a friendly crowd, inquiring about his move and the bookstore, when did he think he'd be open, did he need anything for the apartment upstairs.

Two customers came bearing foil-wrapped casseroles.

One brought a chocolate cake.

Cas had no idea where they got their information from.

The only person he'd spoken to since arriving, other than Gabe, was Dean.

"Well, that was quick, even for you" said brother announced cheerfully, appearing in the doorway with a jaunty grin.

Cas quirked an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" He handed a sweet elderly lady her change and a brown paper bag of rose food.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone behind that counter except a Winchester. Or Jo." Gabe circled his head with a finger. "He upstairs?"

"Who's Joe?" Cas asked, shooting for innocent curiosity and patently failing.

Gabe hooted. "Oh no, this is too easy." He slapped his hands together with glee. "Ok, so let me get this straight." He nodded at Mrs. Beasley and stepped aside so she could squeeze past him through the exit. "Mr. So Handsome I Could Die not only brought you lunch, he's trusted you with his pride and joy. So he could…what? Oh please, God, tell me he's out shopping for formal wear for your romantic dinner plans."

Cas thought Gabe's eyes might actually be glassy. "No, he's chasing down his car." He shifted when Gabe's stare became uncomfortable. "What?"

"You actually had his car towed." Gabe fisted his hands on his apron-clad hips. "Are you a complete idiot?"

"Yeah," Cas sighed. "Sometimes."

He looked so morose Gabe chuckled. He backed out into the sunshine. "Chin up, baby brother. You're here aren't you?"

"I'm no longer sure that's a plus," Cas started, but Gabe was already gone, hurrying across the street to the bakery, blowing kisses to the car he jaywalked in front of. "And how did you know about lunch?" he muttered.

"Everyone knows about lunch."

Cas smiled wanly at the girl waiting patiently at the counter. He totaled up her spray paint. "Slow day for gossip?" he asked hopefully.

She grinned and shook her head. "Nope. You're just the most interesting." She snatched her paint cans off the counter and sauntered out the door.

Cas watched her leave, frowning. _Wonderful._ He thought longingly of the books and quiet waiting for him next door. He looked around the empty store; he really needed his phone. Maybe if he just popped over for a second.

He had no more than grabbed the cell phone from his own dusty checkout counter than he heard the low rumble of the Impala as it pulled up.

_Right in front of the bookstore. _

He gritted his teeth and snatched up an outdated fire extinguisher from the floor. "Such an asshole." Apparently Mr. Winchester wasn't as bright as he looked.

Oh all right, he looked fucking amazing.

But he was pissing Cas off.

"Gee thanks for leaving my store wide open to every crook and criminal in the tri-county area," Dean grumbled from behind the register. He hung his car keys on a hook on the wall, beside an array of family photographs.

"I was only gone for two seconds," Cas replied smoothly. He plunked down the red metal tube. "I need a new one. And you need to move your car."

Dean smirked. "Make me." He crossed tanned, muscular arms and leaned nonchalantly against the counter. His hair was windblown, cheeks flushed, and his eyes were sparkling with humor; he must have driven with the windows down.

And fuck if his grin wasn't the most adorably charming thing Cas had seen in a long, long time. He opened his mouth on a retort when the phone in his hand went off. He glanced down. "I," he frowned. "I need to take this."

Dean watched those pretty blue eyes shutter as Cas backed quickly away from the counter. "Okay," he said, puzzled by the sudden shift in Cas' expression. Cas didn't respond, turning to make a hasty retreat, answering the phone in tones too low for Dean to hear the words. "And I'm not moving my car," he said to the empty store.

…

Saturday night dinner at the Winchester's was Dean's favorite part of the week. It was always a night of good food and the happy chaos that comes from family gathered together in close quarters. Tonight, baby Henry was the root cause of the noise, his cries piercing the air when Dean opened the front door of his parents' house.

"What are you doing to my nephew, Jo?" Dean complained reaching for the chunky dark-haired baby. His round little face crumpled when he saw Dean, one tiny fist opening and closing in a pitiful plea for Dean to hold him.

"He's still teething," Jo said in exasperation. Her hair was tangled into an unkempt knot against the side of her head and there were mascara smudges under her eyes.

Dean thought the orange stain on the collar of her shirt might be carrots. Maybe sweet potatoes. He snuggled the baby close, jostling him when he immediately began to fuss, the higher altitude different but no more satisfying apparently than Jo's rocking in the glider. Dean ruffled Jo's messy hair. "Go make yourself presentable before my brother gets here, Joanna Beth. You're a wreck."

Jo rolled her eyes but hurried in the direction of the bathroom.

Dean chuckled at her muffled shriek a few seconds later. He pulled Henry away from his shoulder and grinned at the crabby baby. "Let's go find you something for those teeth, hey buddy?"

Mary smiled when Dean appeared beside her at the stove. "He looks good on you."

"Mom," Dean warned, pulling a bottle of beer from the fridge. He kissed her on the top of her blonde head. "Sammy coming?"

"Mm hmmm," Mary nodded. "On his way." She pointed at Dean with her spoon. "No fighting about the car."

Dean scowled. "He started it."

Mary smiled and went back to her sauce. "That's not the way I heard it when I was getting a trim at Marjorie's this afternoon."

"Oh fuck me," Dean sighed. He pulled a frozen waffle from the freezer and held it to Henry's lips. The baby latched onto it and began to gnaw.

"Don't curse," Mary admonished.

"Just once in my life it would be awesome if my personal dirty laundry didn't get aired across every barber shop chair and grocery line in town."

"Small towns," his mother murmured with a soft smile. "You're family. You matter." She reached up to place a cool palm to his cheek. "Now go rock the baby and let Jo get cleaned up."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Dean muttered, but he left his mother humming over the stove, happy in her element.

When Sam arrived a few minutes later, his face was drawn and tired, and Dean's heart pinched at his wary expression when he approached the rocker.

"Don't worry, Mom is making me call truce," Dean offered, handing Sam the sleeping baby. The soggy waffle fell to his lap and he gingerly picked it up with a grimace.

Sam snorted softly and nuzzled the baby's head. "Where's Jo?"

"I'm here," Jo said, and Dean noted that her cheeks were newly flushed, hair combed into a neat ponytail.

She still sported the blotch of orange near her neck.

Dean waited for Sam to say something.

Jo's lips parted.

Sam patted the baby's butt in measured taps.

_Oh for the love of Christ, _Dean thought, but Sam finally spoke just when he was ready to intervene.

"Are you going to change your shirt? You have food on you again." Sam turned and walked toward the kitchen.

Dean opened his mouth to call his brother a stubborn, pigheaded, _blind,_ sonofabitch, but snorted when Jo flipped Sam off with an overzealous sweeping gesture. He chuckled and pulled her onto his lap in the glider. "He's an idiot, Jo."

Jo let Dean cuddle her for a moment and they rocked in silence. "Dean?"

"Jo."

"Did that hot bookseller really tow Baby?"

Dean sighed. "You just _had_ to ruin it, didn't you." He stopped rocking. "And how did you know he was hot?"

Jo sat up and looked at him in consternation. "Everyone knows, dumbass. You probably made a killing this afternoon once word got out he was manning the register. I heard even old Mrs. Beasley came out of her rose garden to have a peek."

Dean chuckled and shoved her off his lap. "Get off of me, you hussy, and let's go see if we can make my brother notice you're a girl."

"Fat chance," Jo muttered under her breath, but she allowed Dean to push her toward the kitchen.

…


	4. Chapter 4

Being Saturday, the Roadhouse was packed, popular with both Concordia residents and the out of town crowd. Dean groaned when the trio emerged through the kitchen door.

"Aw, man, someone's got our table. Ellen!" he called down the bar to the brunette chatting up a couple of locals. "Make those dickweeds get off our table!"

"Dean Winchester if you so much as _look_ at one of my customers sideways, I will slap an apron on you and make you start working off your tab." Ellen slammed two bottles of beer down in front of her so she could point menacingly at the new arrivals. "And stay out of my kitchen, unless you're plannin' on manning the grill."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said with a grin, pushing Jo ahead of him before Ellen got any bright ideas and put her only daughter to work. He still needed her to buffer his lingering annoyance with Sam. At least until he had a couple of shots in him. Although it was really hard to be mad at the self-righteous fucker when his face was all wan and pouty, now with the added benefit of a melancholy droop to his eyes. "Fuck, we're going to have to sit against the goddamn wall." A passerby sloshed beer down Dean's arm. "Perfect!" he said tersely, slinging droplets from his fingertips.

"Calm down," Sam said, pushing Dean aside so he could take lead. He nodded coolly at the patrons who parted respectfully for the sheriff.

Dean smirked at Jo's slack jaw and poked her hard in the ribs. "Close your mouth, Joanna, before you catch flies."

"Fuck, Dean. Would you look at that ass?" Jo groaned and followed Sam, allowing enough distance not to interfere with her view.

"I've seen it. Hell, I probably diapered it."

"Buzzkill," Jo muttered.

Sam, oblivious as he was tall, found a booth at the back of the bar and stepped aside to let Jo slide in.

She raised her brows in surprise; normally she sat beside Dean so she could stare at Sam.

Not that she would ever admit that in a million years.

Not that she would ever have to; to Sam, she was a convenient babysitter and surrogate member of the family (although Jo was loathe to say sister. She might have grown up in the Winchester brothers household due to their parents' longstanding friendship, but she had never harbored any familial feelings about Sam).

Jo slid into the booth and found herself flummoxed; should she scoot all the way to the edge to avoid the inevitable thigh touching that came with the close quarters? Sam's legs were stupidly long. _Fuck it,_ she thought; right before she recklessly left at least eight inches between the side of her ass and the end of the bench.

When Sam slid in beside her, he dropped his head against the old oak paneling that offered the booths some privacy. He sighed, relaxing and letting his legs fall open under the table.

When his thigh hit Jo's, a jolt of electricity shot down her spine and pooled low in her stomach. Her eyes caught Dean's he gave his head the briefest shake. _Not yet._

She sighed. _Stupid, sensible older brother types who think they know everything. _

Only Dean was right. _God,_ as much as it pained her to admit it, he was right. Sam was pining for Ruby, and as long as that (Jo grimaced, trying to come up with an insult harsh enough to convey her true emotions while still remaining somewhat respectful to Henry's mother) _tramp_ occupied even one cell of Sam's heart, Jo was not interested in being the rebound girl.

Except in the very real and heartbreaking ways that she _was._

"Hey, isn't that Gabe?" Sam's voice broke through her reverie and she leaned forward to look to where he was pointing.

"And the hot bookseller!" she said excitedly. She kicked Dean in case he didn't hear her.

"Ow, fuck, Jo," Dean gasped, rubbing his shin. "What?"

"Clark Kent, two o'clock."

"Not interested," Dean said, stubbornly refusing to give Jo or Sam the satisfaction of looking. _Wonder what he's wearing,_ he thought. Blue eyes that deep? Damn, a dark blue button down would look amazing on him.

Messy hair.

Hint of stubble.

_Glasses._

Dean peeked. And immediately wished he hadn't. _Fuck me, denim shirt._

Jo snorted and flagged down a waitress. "Round of Cuervo, Abby."

"Bring the bottle," Dean said, voice too gruff.

Abby's finely penciled red eyebrow arched coolly. "Tough day, Winchester?"

Dean sighed inwardly. _Shit._ He was ninety percent sure he was supposed to call her. Last month. "Tough week, Ab."

The redhead sniffed and turned, and damn if she didn't have a pretty fine ass on her herself, all tight and round and swinging from side to side inside a pair of tight blue jeans as she flounced up the aisle. Dean's eyes followed her exit.

And landed on Cas.

Who was staring at Dean.

Staring at Dean staring at the pretty waitress' ass.

Cas blinked and his gaze slid away without even a hint of acknowledgement.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fuck sake."

"What?" Sam asked, turning his head and scanning the bar. "You see Lisa?"

"Aw, Jesus," Dean groaned. Yeah that would be perfect. Why don't they _all_ come out of the woodwork tonight, make this shitty day complete. All of Dean Winchester's failed relationships, and the very hot object of a too brief fantasy session in the shower this afternoon, right here in the same bar. Before he'd even had a single emotionally fortifying drink (the beer before dinner didn't count). Because his life couldn't really get much more complicated than that.

"Lisa's dating Benny, did you hear?"

"What?" Dean sat up. "No way."

"Way," Jo nodded, side eyeing Sam who had dropped one arm across the back of the bench. _Fucker. _Now she couldn't lean back without having Sheriff Winchester warmth pressed against her side, hip, thigh and shoulders. She shrugged, trying to ignore the prickly feeling at the base of her skull. "I think they're cute." She angled slowly until her shoulders rested lightly against the top of the bench seat. Sam shifted, bringing his arm more firmly against her neck. She realized after a protracted silence that he was staring at her. "What?"

Sam studied her with a serious frown.

Jo rubbed her teeth self-consciously with her index finger. "What? Do I have lipstick on my teeth?"

Sam blinked. "You're wearing lipstick?" He looked truly baffled. "Why?"

"Because it's Saturday night? Because I feel like it? Take your pick," she said testily. _Because for one goddamn second I'd like for you to look at me and see more than baby puke and pureed squash and the summer we were fourteen and kissed with tongue behind the apple tree at Bobby's farm._

Sam held up his hands, pulling his arm back and resting his elbows on the table. "Okay, sheesh. Sorry."

Jo sighed in frustration and prayed Abby would hurry with that goddamn bottle.

…

"Where are you going?" Gabe stuck a foot out to block his brother's departure. Cas' responding face was a portrait in long-suffering brotherhood. "Aw, come on baby bro, just one more. You're doing fine. You haven't checked your phone in at least twelve minutes."

"I haven't checked my phone at all," Cas said drily. And he hadn't; he'd been too absorbed in avoiding the booth at the rear of the bar, and the lightly freckled face that beamed at the other occupants, the smiles coming easier, the laughs louder, with each clink of shot glass.

"See? To progress," Gabe announced and held up his beer.

Cas quirked one brow.

Gabe shrugged and downed the rest of the contents of the bottle. When Cas remained poised at the edge of his seat, he sighed. "Fine. Go home to your smelly old books and your stray cat and jerk off alone in Granddad's hand-me down bed. Just remember, the hottest fuck you'll never have will be lying naked right across the hall. Every. Single. Night."

"God, Gabe. Could you be any more crude?" Cas asked disgustedly. His cheeks warmed at the picture his brother's words brought to glorifying Technicolor. _Jesus Christ._

"Yeah, actually—"

"Good night, Gabe." Cas sidestepped the foot and threw a twenty on the table to cover his tab. And part of Gabe's too; he had only managed one beer to his brother's four. He felt absurdly proud when he made it to the door without a single backward glance.

Although his back tingled. Like someone was watching him leave.

"Fuck me," he muttered and left the bar.

…

"Hot bookseller's gone. Way to go Dean, missed your chance." Jo cracked a peanut and threw the shells on the floor.

"Hot bookseller?" Abby picked up the empty tequila bottle and slid three beers on the table.

"Gabe's brother bought the old bookstore next to Winchester Hardware," Sam offered, smiling up at Abby. She really was gorgeous, if somewhat too _in your face_ with her sensuality for his taste.

Jo rolled her eyes and cracked another peanut.

"Yeah? And he's handsome?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. He could see the wheels turning in Abby's pretty red head. "He's smart. A book nerd. Not even remotely your type."

Abby's smile dripped sex when she glanced at Dean through her lashes. "_Everyone's_ my type, Dean."

Jo snorted.

"Something you want to say, Harvelle?" Abby asked sweetly.

"Oh there's plenty—"

"You hungry, Jo? I could eat. Split a burger with me, babe?" Sam slung his arm around her shoulders again, his voice was too loud.

Jo's mouth fell open.

Dean frowned and shook his head. "I'm sorry did you just—"

"One burger and fries, Ab, if that's not too much trouble?" Sam asked amiably.

Abby, seemingly as confused as Sam's companions, backed away with a slow shrug. "Sure thing, Sheriff. Be right back."

Sam removed his arm and sat up straight. "Sorry about that," he muttered under his breath. "And maybe you should lay off the booze for the rest of the night." He pulled Jo's beer toward the center of the table.

Jo stared at him in consternation. Sam Winchester hadn't called her _babe,_ or anything else even remotely resembling a term of endearment in more than a decade. Hell, as far as she knew, his list of adjectives for her included, at best: _convenient, available, _and_ adequate_, with a side of _good enough_. And those were all centered around her caretaker abilities for his infant son. She snatched her beer back. "Fat chance, _Sheriff_."

Dean shook his head again and scratched his temple. "And why exactly did we give up our Cuervo?"

Sam opened his mouth to respond but Jo intervened.

"I have no idea. One bottle of Gold, coming up." She scrambled to her feet and was standing on the table before Dean or Sam could react. She grabbed the nearest cowboy, who grinned at the pretty blonde squeezing his shoulders and obliged her, swinging her to the ground. "Thanks," she said breathlessly. The room spun a little and she swallowed hard.

Sam scowled.

Dean chuckled and reached over to slap her on the ass. "Go on with you then, I'm thirsty Joanna."

Jo swatted Dean's hand away and disappeared in the thick mash of bodies.

Dean studied his brother's disgruntled face. "You gonna figure this thing out any time soon, or you just gonna keep pushing her away until some cowboy sweeps her off her feet for real?"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. "It's complicated, okay?"

Dean scoffed. "So complicated you can't treat her like she matters?" He held up a hand when he saw an immediate protest forming on Sam's lips. "And I don't mean as a stand in mother for Henry when it's convenient."

"Fuck you."

"That all you got, Mr. University Diploma?" Dean asked sarcastically. He watched Jo round the counter, her bright laughter ringing across the bar as she was roped into waiting on a few customers. "She's it, Sam."

Sam followed Dean's gaze and his cheeks flushed. "I know," he said quietly.

_Jesus,_ Dean thought. And here he thought his life was one big fuckup. Stupid baby brother with his stupid sad eyes and droopy shoulders. "Fuck, stop moping and let's get drunk okay? There could be embarrassing drunken sex in your future yet."

Sam laughed softly. "Yeah, okay. Maybe."

…

"Ow, Jo," Dean mumbled. "That's my foot." He was upright, barely, plastered against the brick wall outside his apartment door while Jo carefully attempted to align the key with the lock.

"Sorry." She held her lip between her lip, concentrating. "Fuck," she said, straightening. "I can't do it. You wanna walk to my place?"

Dean chuckled. "If you can't unlock my door what makes you think you can unlock yours?"

"Stupid sheriff shoulda escorted us inside, dumb bastard," Jo slurred, face planting in Dean's chest.

He patted her head, his arm heavy and slow. "We could call him." He aimed for a lecherous tone but ruined the delivery when he yawned loudly. "He's probably naked by now."

"Fuck you." The words were muffled.

"That was the idea. Except you. And my brother." Dean grimaced. "And this conversation just got way weirder than it sounded in my head."

Jo snorted and stepped back. The sudden movement was dizzying and she swayed backward. Dean grabbed her arm until she gave him a curt nod. "Where are the keys? I think I can do it now."

Dean doubled over, laughing. "They're in your hand," he managed between gasps.

Jo glanced down at her hand. "Oh right." She slapped the back of Dean's head before she shoved him aside. "And shut up. God. You'll wake up hot bookseller."

"He's already awake." The gravelly voice was dry and deep and Dean straightened with a snap.

"Christ almighty." Dean squinted blearily. Cas wasn't wearing his glasses. Or a shirt. But his hair was standing up on end exactly the way Dean remembered.

"Not exactly," Cas said drily. He held out a hand. "May I?"

"Where are your shoes?" Dean asked dumbly, staring at Cas' bare feet. They were nice feet. Attached to runners legs. Encased in worn denim. Right above that was a hint of dark hair, a thin trail that started just below an oval-shaped belly button and disappeared behind a button fly. Above _that_ was a firm expanse of chest that was much tanner than he would have thought, and then a rather lickable collar bone. And a square jaw. And—

Cas watched Dean's eyes trail up his body, so slow and methodical he might as well be peeling off his clothes as he went. _Shit._ His cheeks warmed under Dean's stare.

"_Fuck,_ you're hot," Dean muttered.

Cas glanced at Jo who was grinning like a fool beside them. "Uh, thanks. I think you might have had too much to drink."

"More beer!" Dean and Jo announced with tandem guttural cries and raised fists. They dissolved into a fit of snickering and mutual backslapping and Cas rolled his eyes.

"Right. Keys." He snatched the ring from Jo's finger and deftly unlocked the door, pushing first Jo through it and then Dean.

Dean immediately popped back out into the hall. "Cas," he said, drawing the name out, tone too low for Cas' dick not to take notice.

"Dean."

"Thanks," Dean smiled. And it was the same damn too charming smile from the afternoon, and his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were sparkling, and he was leaning close –probably from lack of balance because he was _shitfaced drunk—_and Jo was probably watching from inside the apartment, but Cas didn't think about any of that. His eyes had honed in on a set of too-full lips and the quick darting tongue that slipped out to wet them.

He wasn't sure which one of them closed that last scant inch.

And as Dean gently sucked his tongue into his mouth, tasting of tequila and spearmint, Cas wasn't sure he really cared.

Big, strong hands squeezed his hips and brought him crashing back to reality. He shoved Dean back, possibly with too much haste because Dean lost his balance and slammed his head into the bricks.

"Ow, motherfucker!" Dean grabbed the back of his head and scowled. "I—"

But Cas was already on him, fingers probing his scalp, shoving his hands aside to feather over the quick-forming knot, not that Dean minded, really, because that meant _his_ hands were free to grab those pretty hips again, and maybe taste that long, smooth neck—

"Dean," Cas said exasperatedly when a knee was swiftly anchored between his legs and two hands palmed his ass to bring their groins flush. Lips attached to _that spot_ on his neck, _how the fuck did he do that,_ and sucked hard. "Dean, wait."

"Mrhghbb," Dean mumbled, mouth otherwise occupied.

The apartment door closed with a bang and they jumped apart.

They stared at each other, panting in the dim light of the hallway, chests rising and falling together.

One beat.

Two.

They reached for each other at the same time, mouths colliding, teeth and tongue and hands in hair. Dean swung Cas around so his back scraped painfully against the brick, grinding shamelessly into him below the waist.

"You're wearing too many clothes," Cas complained, when Dean let him come up for air.

"Skin," Dean ordered succinctly, raking blunt nails down Cas' sides.

Cas shuddered. "Lift your arms." Dean's grin was feral and hot when he obliged, and Cas dragged the plain black tee over his head. He threw it to the floor and grabbed Dean by the ears, pulling his head down he could suck at that pretty mouth again.

Somewhere around the time he was hard enough to drive nails, Cas realized what a truly awful, terrible idea this was. Made more terrible by the very real possibility he was going to cry like an infant if Dean stopped methodically rocking into him, each stroke aligning their hardness with a horrifyingly precise symmetry.

"Dean—" he panted.

Dean raised his head. "Do you smell smoke?" he rasped.

"Oh fuck!" Cas spun out from underneath him and skidded across the hall to his apartment. Thick, black tendrils billowed out when he yanked open the door.

"Cas!" Dean's head was fuzzed with lust and alcohol, but he lurched across the smooth wood floor in a vain attempt to stop Cas from running headlong into the dark apartment. He forgot to hold his breath and started coughing as soon as he stepped over the threshold. A warm pile of fur and claws was shoved into his arms seconds before he was steered back into the hall.

"Stay here," Cas ordered.

Dean blinked rapidly, eyes burning, lungs screaming for fresh air as he continued to hack up half a lung. His apartment door opened behind him.

"When'd you get a cat?" Jo asked sleepily.

"I, uh," Dean shrugged helplessly, shoving the spitting ball of fur at Jo and heading back into Cas' apartment.

"I said wait here," Cas said firmly, blocking the doorway. "The fire's out." He pointed at Dean's door. "Take Mary Magdalene inside with you. I'll be there in a second." His hair was soaked and water dripped from the hard contour of his chin.

"Why are you all wet?" Dean asked, confused. His lust may have been effectively cooled by, you know, _fire,_ but the angry glint in Cas' eyes combined with the slick sheen of water on his skin was mighty appealing.

"Because _someone,_" Cas growled, stepping right into Dean's personal space, "forgot to bring me my goddamn fire extinguisher this afternoon."

"Oh," Dean said weakly. _Fuck_ Cas' eyes were _blue._

"I'll just be on the couch," Jo said with a yawn. She scratched into the long hair behind the cat's ears.

Mary Magdalene started to purr.

"Cas." Dean took a deep breath. Was he still drunk or was that arousal that tingled at the base of his spine when Cas' eyes flicked to his mouth and back. Cas leaned forward and, _holy Jesus,_ traced the contours of Dean's mouth with his tongue before kissing him gently.

Cas took a large step backward. "Go to bed Dean. But leave the door unlocked."

"Why?" Dean asked dumbly. _Yeah, that was definitely arousal._

Cas turned to go back into the smoky apartment. "Because I'm moving in."

…


	5. Chapter 5

Cas woke slowly, burrowed deep into the inviting warmth of a comfortable bed. It was a contented sigh that finally coaxed the sleep from his eyes; it hadn't come from him. Dean's head was buried into the pillow next to his, one heavy arm slung across his chest, anchoring him in place.

The early morning hours washed over him and Cas smiled, remembering. Drunk Dean was altogether too damn appealing for his own good, and very hard to resist. Despite Cas' best efforts to convince Jo to swap him places for the night, Dean had intervened by clapping a hand over his mouth, pushing him toward his bedroom, and urging him onto the big bed with a sloppy kiss and hands that were _everywhere._

"Nothing's going to happen, Dean. You're trashed." But Cas had laughed at how quickly Dean had stripped off his remaining clothes. He hadn't even felt compelled to avert his eyes when Dean hooked his fingers in the waistband of his boxers, waggling his eyebrows as he shucked them.

"That's what you think," Dean had grinned, falling onto the bed and fighting his way under the tousled sheets and blankets. One embarrassingly short tug later and he had manhandled Cas into position too, sprawling over him with a satisfied smirk, tangling their arms and legs and sighing deeply when he was settled. He nosed the hair above Cas' ear. "Just want to hold you, m'kay?"

Cas' heart squeezed at the sleepy, sweet words slurred into his neck. "Okay, Dean," he whispered, and against his better judgment, let his hands wander over the smooth, broad back. Dean had practically purred when his fingers combed their way through the short hair at the base of his scalp.

Once Dean's breathing had evened out, Cas knew there were a million reasons he should slip out of the bed, find another place to sleep, but he couldn't seem to muster up the willpower to do so. And eventually the long day and the warmth of the bed and the soft beat of another heart against his skin had lulled him to sleep.

…

Dean blinked rapidly when someone smacked him hard on the ass through the sheet.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead." Cas dumped a laundry basket of smoke-tinged clothes and towels on the end of the bed. "Please tell me you have a washer and dryer."

"Ughh," Dean groaned, covering his eyes with a palm. "What time is it?" It felt like a jackhammer was trying to beat through his skull from behind both eye sockets. He sat up in a flash of panic, swallowing hard as a wave of nausea washed over him. "Cas? How'd you get in here?"

Cas stared at him in consternation, huffing when Dean continued to blink in confusion. "I have no idea why I'm the least bit surprised," he muttered under his breath before stalking from the room.

"Cas?" Dean started to throw the sheet off and follow the other man, nausea be damned, except _whoa._

Naked.

He hurriedly wrapped the sheet around his midsection and padded gingerly across the cold wood planks toward the kitchen, one hand pressed to his temple in a prayerful attempt to keep his brain from leaking out of his ear. "I've really got to stop drinking," he mumbled.

Cas stood at the sink, rinsing out the coffee pot.

"Fuck, coffee, yes," Dean grunted, momentarily forgetting his state of undress and carefully dodging the piercing yellow sun that sliced through the window in an attempt to kill him.

"Oh, did you want some?" Cas asked innocently. "Sorry. Fresh out." He slapped the glass carafe down on the counter and Dean winced as the loud _clink_ rang and held in the air.

"I'm so confused," Dean groaned, dropping into a kitchen chair. "What exactly happened last night?" He self-consciously tucked the sheet tighter around his waist when Cas' gaze fell to his lap.

"Nothing happened last night," Cas said flatly, turning away from the table, blue eyes cool and distant. He picked up a tall covered mug (of what smelled suspiciously like Dean's last cup of coffee) and left the room.

A few seconds later the front door slammed.

"Fuck!"

"Jo's up," Dean snickered to the longhaired cat winding its way around his sheet-covered legs. He jumped to his feet in shock. "Cat!"

"Fuck fuck fuck." Jo staggered into the kitchen, her hair disheveled into a waterfall of blond that covered one half of her face. "I'm never speaking to you again." She collapsed into a vacant chair at the table. "Why was hot bookseller so pissed? What'd you do this time?"

Dean looked at the cat and then back at Jo, then back at the cat. "Ah, Jo?"

"It's Cas' cat, Dean. Calm down. Mother_fucker_," she moaned, rubbing her temples. "My head hurts."

"Why is Cas' cat _here_, though? And why was Cas here? And _why am I naked?_" Dean's voice rose in pitch with each question until Mary Magdalene swished her tail in annoyance and left the kitchen in a snit.

Jo snorted. "Oh man. Do you remember anything?"

Dean scowled. "No. And neither do you, you were as drunk as me." He sat down again, stomach sinking. "Why? What do you remember?"

Jo stopped rubbing her head long enough to give him a cheeky grin. "Well, I know I slept on the couch. Alone." She wagged her eyebrows.

Dean licked his lips and counted to five. "I did _not_ forget having sex with Clark Kent. Please _God,_ tell me I didn't forget."

"How's your tush?"

"Jo!"

Jo smirked. "Okay okay, TMI. I feel you."

"Not helping," Dean ground out, letting his head fall off the back of the chair. He stared at the ceiling morosely. "Jesus fuck, I forgot having sex with hot bookseller."

"Well look at it this way," Jo said congenially , reaching over to pat his arm in sympathy. "He has to come back for his cat at some point."

Dean exhaled carefully. "I need an aspirin. And then I need to throw up."

"Maybe you should reverse the order of those things," Jo said helpfully, scratching at the knotted mass of hair above her ear.

The front door opened and shut with a more muted bang and both occupants of the kitchen table sat upright.

"Fuck, I'm naked," Dean hissed, jumping out of the chair and frantically looking for a place to hide.

"Think he's already seen all there is to see," Jo snickered.

"Shut up, asshole," Dean whispered. "And help me find some damn pants."

A pair of blue jeans sailed through the kitchen door, narrowly missing Dean's face. He bent over to snatch them up and moaned pitifully, clutching the sheet against his stomach, forcing down the bile that surged up in his throat.

The blessed scent of caffeine wafted through the door an instant before a tall, dark head appeared. Cas set two Styrofoam takeout cups from Benny's on the table. "Can't promise those are clean, but they're better than your toga." He nodded at Jo. "Good morning."

Jo waved cheerfully.

Dean choked back a laugh, covering it with a cough when Cas gave him an irritated look. _Still pissed then._ "Hi," he said. He began to back toward the bedroom, jeans in hand. "I'll just be back here. Putting on pants." He turned and walked as briskly as possible toward escape. "And searching for my dignity," he said under his breath. _Please don't leave before I get to see you up close,_ he thought fervently.

Cas raised an eyebrow at Jo. "Sleep well?" He pushed one of the Styrofoam cups toward her and she accepted it gratefully.

"Like a fucking log." Her mouth made a belated _oh_. "Um, excuse me," she said primly.

"I don't have a problem with colorful language," Cas offered, inclining his head politely.

"Lord—" Jo bit her lip. "Are you for real? Or do you have a hidden camera crew somewhere, recording our every move?"

Cas chuckled softly and took a sip of the coffee he'd brought back for Dean. He could feel his skin flushing and hoped Jo would think it was from the brisk October wind outside. "No camera crews. Just me and the cat."

"Mary Magdalene."

"That's right," Cas smiled. Jo was a cute little thing, all blonde and disheveled and unless he was misreading the way her eyes had narrowed on his face, about one hundred and ten pounds of overprotective pit bull disguised as best friend. "I'm not going to hurt him." The words surprised him as much as Jo and he blinked. He hadn't meant to say that.

Jo seemed nonplussed. "You sure about that, handsome?"

Cas' eyes fell to the cup and he absently fingered the lip. _Yes? Not really? God I hope so? _He may not have consciously planned to dive headlong into a sticky mess with the very appealing hardware store owner in the next room, _damn Gabriel anyway,_ but he wasn't feeling that frantic need to bolt that so regularly accompanied his previous relationships either. He had a feeling that wouldn't be good enough for Jo, so he remained silent.

Jo leaned forward on her elbows, eyes sparkling mischievously. "So. Did you have hot drunken sex or not?" she whispered, blowing on her coffee.

Cas leaned forward too, until their faces were nearly touching. "Not telling."

…

Dean had just succeed in pulling a clean t-shirt from his dresser, jeans on but unfastened, when he felt the presence of another person in the room. He whipped around. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long enough, apparently" Cas said with a wink. "How's your head."

Dean pursed his lips and pushed his hands through the armholes. "Hurts like a sonofabitch."

Cas nodded toward the bed, where he had dumped his laundry earlier. "I borrowed some clothes. All of mine smell like smoke."

Dean glanced over him, registering that Cas was wearing _his_ favorite AC/DC tee. He licked his lips. _Damn._ He tried desperately to think of a smart assed retort but ended up staring helplessly at the way the faded blue denim hung dangerously low from Cas' slim hips. He wondered what Cas would do if he surged forward and put his tongue—

"You should button your pants now," Cas said calmly.

"_Shit._" Dean flushed, working the buttons on his fly. "You, you're—" he grunted in frustration and raked his fingers through his hair. "You are very annoying."

Cas cocked his head. "You're not terribly eloquent when you're hung over, are you?"

"I'm eloquent _all_ the time," Dean retorted, whirling around to retrieve socks from the still open dresser drawer. He banged his elbow in the process, swearing under his breath and shaking the sudden numbness from his fingers.

Cas' soft chuckle behind him set his teeth on edge.

"There was a fire," Dean said suddenly, a flash of memory hitting him square in the chest. Teeth and tongue and hands. _So good._ He didn't dare turn around for fear Cas would read his thoughts on his face. _Jesus fuck, he tasted like caramels._

"There was," Cas agreed.

Dean frantically searched his memory banks but came up empty; there was smoke and hot kissing and he was ninety percent sure Cas hadn't been entirely dressed, but after that… nothing.

"I'm going down to the shop to set up my window display," Cas offered. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't lock the door when you go, so I can get in to gather my things when I'm ready to leave."

"Leave?" Dean asked, still stubbornly refusing to turn around and face him. With his twinkly blue eyes and messy hair. And strong, graceful hands. And flat stomach. They had been against the wall last night, outside his door, and Cas had ripped his t-shirt over his head and flung it across the tiny hall with an intent look of possession in his eyes.

The same tee Cas was wearing now. _Help._

Cas hesitated by the bedroom door. "The cleaner's will start on my apartment tomorrow morning. I can," he paused, frowning. He squared his shoulders, Dean's stiff posture and mixed signals making up his mind for him. "I'll be staying with Gabe until they're finished."

"No!" Dean swung around. He bit the inside of his cheek, the back of his neck prickling with heat. "Not necessary. You can stay here," he said gruffly. "It was my fault. And the store, it would be easier if you were here for the store."

Cas still hesitated, unsure. "It wasn't your fault. I left the stove."

"I distracted you," Dean said slowly, testing his resolve when he met Cas' gaze. _Stubble, check. Messy hair, check. Too fucking blue eyes, ch—_

"I have a cat," Cas said a little desperately. Dean's voice had dipped low and deep and the effect had his emotions (or was that his libido?) ping ponging like crazy. He was about eight seconds from a desperate need to escape.

As if on cue, Mary Magdalene appeared, prancing daintily across Dean's bedroom floor.

Dean sneezed. He held up a hand when Cas moved to intercept her. "I can live with that." He eyeballed Mary Magdalene who made a beeline for him. "I'm only slightly allergic."

Cas snorted. "Okay. But I'll sleep on the couch tonight. You can have the bed to yourself." When Dean's eyes widened, he shrugged. "You hog the covers."

And with that little gem, he was gone.

Dean's mouth slammed shut and he looked down at the cat, who had flopped onto her side at his feet, lazily swishing her tail in a small square patch of sunshine. Mocking him.

"What are you so happy about? I slept naked in bed with Clark Kent and can't remember a damn thing about it. Fuck my everfucking life."

Mary Magdalene sneezed.

…

Jo left after a hasty shower. Dean suspected it might have something to do with a text she received while they were fighting over who should cook breakfast; Sam probably needed a babysitter, he thought bitterly. And true to form, Jo would run right off to do his bidding, because in this kingdom of shitty willpower, if Dean was king, then Jo was most definitely the queen. Dean had been tempted over the past several weeks to set her up with a few of the eligible bachelors in town, just to piss Sam off. Or rattle him awake; either way it would be better than watching this train wreck happen in slow motion over and over again.

Cas' cat was sitting on the kitchen counter when he emerged from his own very long, very hot, very restorative shower. She batted at a slip of paper next to the sink, her little paw pushing the white square closer and closer to the edge.

"Stop that," he admonished, lifting her and setting her gently on the ground. A few long hairs floated across his peripheral vision along with the sparkling dust motes. He waved them away and then pinched the bridge of his nose to hold back the sneeze. He picked up the note, the unfamiliar writing giving him instant butterflies.

_Dean,_

_Take these aspirin with a full glass of water. And eat something with protein. Eggs preferably. _

_Lunch?_

_C_

Dean looked around the floor for the "aspirin". Mary Magdalene had already slung them across the kitchen, but he rescued them and swallowed them down, even though he was pretty sure he had a full bottle somewhere in the medicine cabinet (and it had been a few weeks since he had mopped). Cas had left them.

_Jesus Christ_, he was a sap.

Lunch. A slow smile spread across Dean's face. Yes. He could definitely do lunch.

He whistled as he threw Cas' laundry in with his own, and thought about burgers and fries and elegant hands and an entirely too murky brick wall.

…

Dean left the pot of sauce simmering on the stove, spaghetti drained and waiting in a colander in the sink. He jogged down the stairs to the back entry of the adjacent stores, his head only slightly protesting with each step in descent. He wiped his hands nervously on his jeans before he tugged on the bookstore door.

_"Why would you say that? You know that's—" _

Cas' voice carried across the quiet room and Dean heard an empty box fall to the floor, tossed by impatient hands maybe. He stilled, wondering if he should back out of the shop and knock to announce his arrival.

_"Michael, stop. You're overreacting."_

_Michael?_ Dean frowned. Nope. Definitely not backing out now. He moved closer when Cas' voice grew distant, as though he had stepped further into the store.

_"You know,"_ Cas' voice dropped an octave into sweet spot territory and Dean's entire system went on red alert.

A bead of sweat popped out on his upper lip as he waited impatiently for Cas to continue.

_"This entire conversation would be moot if you would just—"_

Dean swallowed when Cas chuckled low.

_"Yeah, whatever. I suppose I'll have to take your word for it, won't I?"_

A melodic humming a few moments later let Dean know the phone conversation must be over. And wow, now he was both irritatingly unsatisfied and raging with curiosity. He rapped loudly on the doorframe that separated the back room from the storefront.

"Anybody home?" he called cheerfully, hoping he had adequately masked his twinge of jealousy. _Michael. _Wow, even the name was douchey. Michael was a douchebag, Dean was sure of it.

Cas appeared from behind a bookshelf, a charming smudge of dirt on his chin. "Dean," he smiled. "You look better."

Dean grimaced. "Something tells me that's not a compliment."

Cas grinned and waved the books he held in his hands. "Let me put these away and then we can go get lunch, okay?" He disappeared again. "Are you hungry?" he called.

Dean tried helplessly to unsee the freakishly endearing way his clothes bagged on Cas' slimmer frame. "Yeah, a little."

"Okay. What are you hungry for?" Cas appeared again and brushed his hands on his thighs.

The question wasn't meant to be a double entendre, but Dean's jealous streak combined with his lingering questions about the previous night were pushing his overactive imagination into smutty territory. He shook his head to clear it. "Spaghetti?" he asked weakly.

Cas chuckled. "That might be tough to find on a Sunday afternoon in Concordia. Unless you have an inside source?"

He was too close, Dean thought desperately; dammit, he could _smell_ him and he smelled like Dean's body wash. _Fuckdamnhell._ "Me. I mean, I'm the source," he said gruffly, willing himself not to step back when Cas continued to advance. "I, uh, I made spaghetti," he trailed off.

Cas stopped and stared. "You did?" Dean's face was still slightly pale, and his eyes seemed maybe a little dull. Lingering pain? Exhaustion? He wondered absently if the hardware store owner would mind if he ran his fingers through his pretty hair, mussed it up a little, soothed away the last of the headache.

His fingers tingled. He had had his hands in that hair for most of the night_,_ long after the damp kisses on his neck had given way to slumber, and too-hot arms and legs had pinned him in place. He awoke this morning with a numbed forearm and a faint hickey over his collarbone. He rubbed at his jaw with a knuckle, forcing himself into the present. "You cooked?"

Dean blushed and ducked his head and _fuck_ if that wasn't the cutest damn thing. Cas shoved his hands in his pockets before he did something really stupid. Morning hadn't been that long ago and his body thrummed to life, remembering a warm, pliable and very naked Dean Winchester wrapped around him just a few hours previous. He shifted surreptitiously, willing his dick to stand down.

Dean shrugged. "It was nothing, and I was hungry." He nodded toward the exit and led the way out of the store. The quiet tread of their footsteps in the narrow stairwell was intimate and it did strange things to his stomach. "How's the shop coming?" he asked, desperate to break the heavy silence before he lost all resolve and pushed Cas into the wall and kissed him senseless.

Damned hot bookseller.

With his stupid glasses.

And chin smudge.

Dean spun around with a frustrated grunt and used his thumb to wipe away the offensively adorable dirt.

Cas froze.

"Dirt," Dean said curtly.

"Oh. Thanks." As they continued to stare at one another, Cas remembered tracing the bow of Dean's lip with his tongue and his jeans tightened another centimeter. Or twelve.

Dean's eyes fell to Cas' mouth. A shadowy memory flicked across his senses and he licked his lips. "I—"

Cas grabbed the back of his head with a soft curse and brought their mouths together.

As kisses go, it wasn't particularly lusty or long. But Dean's heart still thumped so loudly in his chest he fully expected Cas to comment on it. "I thought I remembered that," he grumbled when they broke apart.

"Sorry." Cas apologized weakly. "I couldn't help myself."

Dean snorted. "And I'm not even naked this time."

Cas tilted his head. "You weren't naked the last time. Not at first."

Dean groaned and turned to continue up the stairs. "I demand a full blow by blow accounting of the previous twelve hours."

"It mostly involved you telling me how pretty my eyes are, and how much you appreciated my, um," Cas bit his lip in humor. "Anatomy."

"Aw fuck," Dean clapped a hand over his eyes. "I did not. You're making that up."

"God's truth." Cas held up a hand, _scout's honor._

Dean cracked the apartment door, scanning for potential escaping felines before swinging it open. "I don't believe you. Pics or it didn't happen."

Cas sniffed the air appreciatively. _Mmmm_. So Dean could cook. Dean owned his own business, looked like a fucking male model, was a cuddly drunk, a fabulous kisser, and _could cook._ This new living arrangement might turn out to be a real problem. "Noted. Next time I'll keep my cell phone handy," he said absently, scanning the living room for Mags. "Where's my cat?"

"Probably in my bed. Damn thing knows her hair makes me sneeze," Dean complained. "Kitty kitty kitty."

Cas scoffed. "She'll never come to that. She's not your ordinary house cat."

Mary Magdalene appeared at Dean's feet with a serene _Meow._

Dean grinned triumphantly. "You were saying?" He bent over and scratched behind her ears, crooning a string of baby talk. Mags pushed her face into his hand and began to knead the floorboards.

Cas jabbed his finger at the cat as he stalked past the two lovebirds. "I'll speak to you later."

Mary Magdalene squeezed her eyes shut in acknowledgement. Or possibly pity. It would seem _no one_ was immune to Dean Winchester.

In the kitchen, Cas sat at the table set for two, desperately _not thinking_ that Dean's domesticity was adorable. Stupid fuck. He was supposed to be cocky and annoying and abrasive.

Dean washed his hands at the sink and began to dish up the spaghetti. "How goes the shop?"

"I think I'll be ready to open the doors tomorrow," Cas said absently, picking up the local paper and scanning the headline,_ Fifth Annual Small Town Charmer. _"What's this?"

"Huh?" Dean set the plates on the table with a flourish, along with a loaf of French bread. He _might_ be showing off. "Oh. That's me."

"Excuse me?" Cas laughed at Dean's blasé delivery; he had read through maybe a third of the article. "It looks like a contest for local businesses."

"Well, yeah, but I win every year." Dean winked. "So…it's not really a contest."

"Uh huh," Cas said, folding the paper and setting it aside. "What's the prize?"

"Hmm? Oh." Dean spread a napkin over his lap. "Twenty-five hundred dollars. And bragging rights."

Cas picked up his fork and met Dean's smug grin head on. "Challenge accepted."

"What?" Dean asked, distracted by Cas' stupidly handsome face. He swallowed; he had missed something again. _Dammit._

Cas extended his hand over the table. "May the best store owner win."

Dean pursed his lips, green eyes glinting with amusement. "You're on." He grabbed Cas' hand and shook. And gave about four seconds serious thought to pulling the hot bookseller over the table and into his lap.

Cas tugged his hand back with a knowing grin. "Don't underestimate me, Winchester," he murmured. He bit into a crusty piece of bread, sly mischievousness giving his eyes a rakish gleam.

Dean frowned in suspicion. "The contest takes place _in the store,_ not by flaunting your fresh meat smell all over town."

"All's fair in—"

"Cas," Dean warned, pointing his fork.

"Okay, okay," Cas chuckled. "I hereby promise I won't try to distract the unsuspecting townsfolk with my _pretty eyes_ and my impressive _anatomy_."

"Cas!"

Cas was still laughing when Dean threw his napkin in his face and stalked off in search of the cat.

"This is going to be too easy," he grinned.

…


	6. Chapter 6

Cas carefully positioned the illustration with tweezers, pressing it gently into place on the adhesive. He had just moved to the second set of small prints waiting to be tipped into the nearly restored book of fairytales when his phone began playing _All My Exes Live in Texas,_ at full volume. Frowning he picked it up and stared at the screen.

**_Alarm: You missed dinner, dumbass!_**

Cas smiled and hit the _delete_ on the timer to stop the irritatingly catchy song. His stomach growled, belatedly reminding him the phone was right. He _had_ missed dinner.

Again.

He stood and stretched his arms overhead, back and shoulders cracking. He had been hunched over the workbench since he had closed the bookstore at five, leaving him stiff and achy and hungry. He hit the light and locked the back door, climbing the stairs and letting his thoughts drift to his unconventional living arrangement.

He had been sleeping on Dean's couch for more than three weeks. The cleaners had arrived as scheduled to take care of the smoke damage, and inadvertently discovered an apparently longstanding leak in the kitchen. Most of the floor and cabinets would have to be ripped up and replaced, new pipe laid, an expensive renovation that Cas couldn't afford.

Suddenly the _Small Town Charmer _award had more riding on it than simple rivalry.

He could have moved in with Gabe; he _should_ have moved in with Gabe. But Dean had casually waved off the suggestion and the very next day while Cas was at Benny's picking up takeout for their dinner, Smith's Furniture had delivered a new sofa with a hide-a-bed for Dean's living room.

He managed to convince Dean not to convert the small office into a guest bedroom, but only barely. Dean _did_ insist on moving Cas' grandfather's old chest of drawers into the small room, and clearing the closet for Cas' clothes.

And then they were roommates.

Cas, after adamantly insisting to Gabe on arrival in Concordia that he needed space, preferred to live alone, had swiftly developed a soft spot for a quick wit over breakfast and morning glimpses of a towel-clad ass, and a home-cooked meal almost every night. Dean was unassumingly domestic, comfortable cooking and handling household chores, and making it all so damned sexy Cas had trouble ever _leaving. _

Sometimes he fantasized about a long, intense snow storm, one that would shut down the town and force he and Dean into the apartment for days. Alone. With nothing to do but finally rid themselves of the sexual tension that had been building since their last kiss.

Not that there hadn't been a few adjustments. Dean always forgot to put the clothes in the dryer, although he was excellent at folding and putting things away, so Cas accepted responsibility for the transfer of clothes.

Cas hated to dust or sweep, but he found tidying the bathroom and kitchen to be very zen, so Dean took care of the floors and the wood.

Dean was better at leaving his store at closing time, so he made dinner most nights. Cas, less often of late as a steady rush of Christmas orders came in, remembered to come home in time to eat it while it was hot.

And while Dean sat across from him, smiling and smug, and sometimes irritatingly brash, always devastatingly handsome and hotter than hell.

It was the best and worst three weeks of Cas' life.

When he pushed open the door, the apartment smelled of meatloaf and fresh bread and Cas' stomach growled again. Dean glanced up when he entered the living room.

"You're late." His full lips were pursed into what Cas thought might be the Dean Winchester version of a pout .

"Sorry," he grinned tiredly. "Busy day?"

Dean grunted.

_Definitely pouting, _Cas noted, tossing his store keys into the small metal bowl on a side table, thinking absently about pushing Dean into the couch cushions and biting his lower lip. "Thanks for the alarm. Charming choice of music."

Dean stood and gestured toward the kitchen, pushing Cas toward the table. "Yeah, well, you gotta learn when the work day is done. Have a life outside the store." His head disappeared into the fridge and he emerged with two beers. He removed the tops and passed one to Cas before pulling a long swig from his own bottle. Then he retrieved a foil-wrapped plate from the warmer drawer in the old-fashioned oven. "Hope you like meat loaf and mashed potatoes."

Cas sat at the table and picked up his fork, frowning when Dean didn't join him. "Did you already eat?"

Dean slid the plate in front of him. "Plate's hot, be careful," he grumbled.

"Dean—"

"Eat your dinner, Cas," Dean said grouchily before tossing the pot holder onto the countertop and returning to the living room, muttering something about _workaholics_ under his breath as he went.

Cas stared at the empty doorway. And then at his plate.

After months, years, of doing it, he had recently discovered he hated eating alone.

Dean looked up in surprise when Cas stepped over his mess of train parts and miniature buildings and sat down beside him, balancing his plate of food on his knees. "I have a kitchen table for a reason."

"Mm hmm," Cas hummed in agreement, scooping up a hearty bite of mashed potatoes with a happy sigh.

Dean rolled his eyes and hid his smile; he wasn't actually mad Cas had come into the living room to eat. He _should_ have went down to the store and dragged his sexy ass up the stairs at six, when dinner was ready. But there was a part of him that still felt like _he_ was more invested in this push-pull chemistry experiment they were playing with than Cas was.

_Dean_ certainly didn't receive private telephone calls every Saturday afternoon between the hours of one and three.

Maybe he wanted Cas to remember it was dinner time and be just as eager to eat with Dean as Dean was to eat with him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Headache?" Cas asked, fork poised mid-air.

_No, sexually frustrated,_ Dean wanted to retort. Instead he shook his head. "Nah, it's nothing."

Cas chewed slowly, watching Dean build the pieces of the little town. "This is cheating you know. Using nostalgia and your Gramp's vintage train set for your Christmas display. Everyone in town is going to eat it up."

"I know," Dean grinned with a wink. "Serves you right, after that stint you pulled at Halloween."

Cas had appeared on Halloween morning dressed as none other than Mr. Darcy, complete with tightly fitted waistcoat and slim pants, a jaunty top hat perched on his head. Dean had very nearly swallowed his tongue when Cas had smacked him on the ass with his riding crop before trotting down the stairs to open the shop. Every mother with a child remotely in the age bracket of plausible trick or treating had dropped by to get candy from the handsome _Pride and Prejudice_ hero.

Dean had dressed as a cowboy, just as he had for years. He loved wearing the chaps and spurs, and feigning disgruntlement had challenged Cas to a duel at sunset when his line for candy outside the store remained consistently longer than Dean's own.

The townsfolk might have gathered round to watch the spectacle as it took place in the midst of _Trick or Treat Downtown_.

Sherriff Winchester obligingly marked them off.

When they finished their paces and whipped around, Cas was the clear winner, and Dean fell dramatically to his death on the sidewalk, much to the raucous cheers from the crowd of spectators. Cas would have been annoyed that Dean had stolen his thunder and received a steady surge of visitors after that, but the goddamn chaps were too appealing. He knew he would be fantasizing about those two scraps of leather for a long, long time. He hid his smile when Dean waved jovially at him, flanked by costumed children, and stalked haughtily into the bookstore, ever in character.

Later that night Dean would drag him out the back of the store, well before he had finished cleaning up, pushing him up the stairwell, spurs clinging dully on each tread.

"Will you quit whining?" Dean complained tiredly.

"I'll have to go in an hour early to clean up all the candy," Cas grumbled.

"So we'll get up early, quit your bitching." Dean gave into temptation, probably a side effect of exhaustion, and allowed his hands to fall to Cas' hips, giving them a gentle squeeze. He released him reluctantly and moved in front to unlock the apartment.

Cas had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his entire life. Dean's western shirt was snug and strained tightly across the contours of his back when he bent over to slip the key in the lock. Those ridiculous chaps swung forward with the momentum, outlining the shape of his already very appealing backside.

When Dean straightened, he found a strained and pissy Mr. Darcy waiting to shove him against the doorframe.

"Those chaps are a menace," Cas growled before grabbing his face in both hands and planting a hard kiss on his lips.

Dean sucked in a surprised breath, before his brain caught up to the rest of his body and he reacted, shoving his hands under that damned shiny waistcoat Cas was wearing, popping the buttons as he ripped it open.

Their mouths broke apart on a shared gasp.

"I borrowed this," Cas said weakly, color too high.

Dean dipped forward and kissed him softly. "I'll fix it."

Cas sagged against him, head dropping to Dean's shoulder. They stood in the quiet doorway, Dean rubbing Cas' back soothingly. "_You_ are a menace," Cas finally mumbled.

Dean chuckled and gently pushed him away. "You did all right tonight, partner," he tipped his cowboy hat respectfully, and then slipped into the apartment.

Cas watched him until he disappeared behind his bedroom door, unsure whether he had just been saved from himself or dismissed entirely.

He had had an ice cold shower before bed.

"I wouldn't say I exactly _won_ on Halloween," Cas pointed out, waving his fork. "I might be willing to concede a tie, even."

"You bet your ass we tied," Dean scoffed, carefully setting aside a tiny replica of the hardware store. "Even with your womanizing."

"I did no such thing," Cas exclaimed, sitting up straight.

Dean laughed at Cas' indignant expression. He sneezed suddenly, then twice more. "Ow," he complained, pinching his nose again.

"The cat?" Cas set his plate on the coffee table. "You need to kick her out of your bed."

_I need you in my bed,_ Dean thought pitifully, throat scratchy and sore. "No, just a cold I think."

Cas studied him. His cheeks were perhaps a little ruddier than normal, and his eyes particularly bright. "I think you have a fever."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "If you don't like the meatloaf, you don't have to eat it. No need to get all personal attack-y."

"Fine." Cas retrieved his plate and continued to eat, ignoring the jibe. "But shut your door so the cat stays out. Just for tonight, so you can sleep."

"Yes, mom." Dean waved off his concern. He picked up the sketches for his planned track layout. "So," he said, striving for indifference. "What are your window display plans."

"No." Cas scraped the last bite of mashed potatoes off the plate and took an inordinately long time to withdraw the fork from his mouth.

Then the bastard winked at him, and Dean felt his cheeks get a little pinker. He cleared his throat, wondering just how long this self-imposed hiatus from touching was going to last. If he had to take one more cold shower in the morning, not because he was out of hot water but because he had had to pass an adorably sexy and sleepy Cas in the hall, he was going to fucking lose his goddamned mind.

"You, uh," he cleared his throat again, then coughed. The tickle was now a nagging irritation. "You have enough blankets? Gonna have a cold snap tonight."

Cas' gaze slid over to study Dean. His cheeks _were_ rosier than usual, and he looked exhausted, jawline tensed. "You're going to bed. Now." He reached over and confiscated the engine Dean held and hauled him to his feet by his bicep.

"What? No I'm not," Dean protested irritably, but Cas noted that he didn't object to his guiding him in the direction of his bedroom.

And as long as he wasn't objecting, Cas let his hands travel up his back, digging into the muscles of his neck and shoulders in an impromptu massage. It felt like a _long_ time had passed since Halloween night in the doorway, too long since he had been allowed to touch him. He had been waiting for a signal from Dean, something to indicate he might be interested in more than casual conversation over shared dinners. After all, _Dean_ had been the one to move away that night.

Dean groaned lightly. "Oh _God,_ I'd tell you not to stop, but that sounds too much like a porno for a Wednesday night," he said on a husky laugh.

Cas chuckled and let his hands fall away. "I'll clean up the kitchen. You go to bed."

Dean turned and began to back slowly across the living room. "Thanks, Cas," he said hesitantly, wondering miserably if he was ever going to get the bookseller naked and under him. Cas ran frustratingly hot and cold, one minute his startlingly blue eyes heating Dean's skin as they raked over his face and body and the next acting like nothing more than a pitifully platonic roommate. It was driving Dean crazy.

Cas, seemingly oblivious to Dean's too tight jeans and frustrated sex drive, disappeared into the kitchen and began to run water for the dishes.

When the bedroom door closed with a bang, Cas released a long sigh, white knuckling the countertop. If Dean didn't make a move soon, he was probably going to fatally embarrass himself by pinning him into the nearest piece of semi-comfortable furniture—or wall—and dry humping until he released this unbearable coil of heat that had been building in his stomach since the day he moved in.

He attacked the meatloaf pan, scrubbing furiously. "Or the shower. He'd already be naked in the shower," he muttered, increasing his anxiety and lust equally as he plotted the perfect time and place and position to thoroughly debauch the asshole sleeping peacefully in the next room.

…

Cas yawned sleepily and hit his phone to silence the alarm. He hadn't slept well; in spite of taking his advice and shutting Mags out of the room, Dean had still been up most of the night coughing. And he looked like death warmed over when he appeared in the kitchen.

"You look like crap," Cas offered, raising a hand to Dean's forehead.

Dean ducked away irritably. "I'm fine." His voice was even huskier than normal.

Cas' stupid stomach fluttered with interest at the scratchy tone. "You have something for that throat?" He squelched his incredibly ill-timed lust with a firm but scathing inner rebuke.

"Yeah. Hard work." Dean poured a large mug of coffee and stalked from the kitchen without a backward glance. "See you tonight."

The front door slammed and Cas blinked. "So, not a good patient, then."

…

It was just after two when Cas pushed through the hardware store door, scowling at the obnoxious bell that jangled overhead. He reached over and flipped the _Open _sign in the window to _Closed._

As he rounded the neatly stacked pyramid of paint cans flanking the entry aisle, he saw Dean, clammy and pale but upright, behind the register. A woman was digging through her purse for her wallet, two little boys arguing at the top of their lungs at her feet.

Cas frowned when Dean winced at a particularly loud screech.

Dean glanced over in surprise when Cas appeared at his elbow. Cas moved him aside and pointed at the back door.

"Go to bed."

"What?" Dean asked dumbly. The toddler screeched again and he blanched.

"I've got this. Go. To. Bed." Cas shoved him again, one firm hand in the center of his back. When Dean continued to stare, expression blank, Cas rolled his eyes. "You're about to drop, Winchester. Go."

"But the store," Dean protested half-heartedly. The pull of his nice, warm bed was strong and his resolve was already weakening. Another ear-splitting wail from little Johnny Beecham tipped him over the edge and he shuffled toward the back of the store. He turned just before he left, but Cas was smiling at Holly Beecham with that damned appealing grin he seemed to offer so freely to everyone in town, _but Dean_, and Holly was smiling back, eyelashes fluttering. _Fuck my life,_ Dean thought, wearily climbing the stairs to the apartment.

…

Dean stirred when the bed dipped as someone sat down. Cool fingers brushed his hair aside and he shivered. "Cold." His teeth were chattering.

"You're burning up," the voice murmured, gravelly and low.

Dean knew that voice. _How did he know that voice?_ He burrowed deeper in the blankets.

"Swallow this."

Dean shook his head.

"Dean." The voice was exasperated now. "Dean, open your mouth, one swallow."

"No," he rasped stubbornly. His eyelids were so heavy. He could open them, see who this fucker was that had the audacity to rake strong fingers through his sweaty hair. Fingertips brushed the short strands away from his forehead before dipping to massage the back of his neck, kneading the feverish muscles that were so sore and achy. Dean leaned into the touch. His lips parted on a sigh and the sneaky bastard popped the pills between his teeth.

"Now take a sip."

The hand holding his neck urged him up, and Dean complied , the pills already dissolving on his tongue, bitter and gritty. He blinked but the room was dark and he was too tired to focus on the shadowy figure that supported him. He sipped from the cup held to his mouth and swallowed down the pills.

"Cas," he sighed as he fell back against the pillow.

Cas studied Dean's face in the dim room. His brow still had a fine sheen, clammy and hot, and he was visibly shaking under the blankets, chilled.

A circle of thumb and forefingers had gripped his wrist when he had helped him to sit long enough to swallow a mouthful of water, and it rested there still, too warm. Too welcome.

He moved to stand and the grip tightened.

"_Cas,_" Dean mumbled into his pillow. Then he shivered, bedclothes trembling. "Cold_._"

Cas sighed heavily. He was going to regret this.

He stood and stripped off his t-shirt, kicked off his shoes. He contemplated the heavy blankets covering the stubborn asshole in the bed, and then shucked his jeans too. He shoved at Dean's shoulder. "Scoot over, jackass."

Dean resisted, grumbling under his breath until he felt the presence of warm, bare skin slide under the sheets with him.

Then he latched on and wrapped himself around the warmth, tried to crawl inside it.

Cas chuckled and abandoned any attempt to find a more comfortable position, remembering another night and another delirious Dean.

Although this wasn't terrible.

The arms wrapped around his back, for instance. Not offensive.

Nor was the knee shoved between his thighs. Although it was too close to a certain member of his anatomy, and _that_ had perked up in interest when prickly leg hairs brushed against it through the thin cotton of his boxers.

The too-hot lips buried in the crook of his neck were the least terrible of all, although he would go to his grave before he admitted that to Dean.

Goddamn his little crush on the handsome hardware store owner. He combed his fingers through Dean's hair and grinned when he immediately settled down, relaxing into the strokes. Dean most definitely had a thing for hair touching.

This had to count for at least two nights of dishes.

And one week of laundry.

And _little crush_ was probably not the most correct explanation for the way his heart thudded tightly in his throat as Dean whispered his name again in his sleep.

"Fuck me, I'm in love with you," Cas muttered in startled realization.

Dean sighed contentedly, oblivious but warm.

…


End file.
